The Hunchback of Notre Dame: Devil's Masquerade
by Wickfield
Summary: Rid of the shadow of Frollo, the world is a place of light for Notre Dame's bellringer. Yet things are not always as they seem, and soon Quasimodo and Esmeralda find themselves receiving aid - and facing danger - from the least expected places. Dis-verse.
1. Prologue of a Gypsy King

**A/N: **_Here's a little teaser of sorts for my upcoming story "HOND: Devil's Masquerade." I'm working hard on it right now, so enjoy the prologue, and keep checking back while I finish the rest!_

**PROLOGUE OF A GYPSY KING**

Ah, you have returned, my friends, at last! Clopin knows. Clopin Trouillefou, Emperor of Truands, King of Gypsies, sees all from his little cart. It has been six long months since last we met, no? And yet – listen, do you hear? – the bells still ring! Faithful they are, faithful is their bellringer, Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame! Now that Judge Claude Frollo is gone (purging the world at last of much great sin!), we see a good deal more of the bellringer. Shy, yes – how can he be otherwise? But so much brighter, as he visits La Esmeralda in the street, and carves his miniature village, and sounds the joyous knells of the bells!

_He is happy!_

Yes, Clopinet, my puppet, you speak the truth. He is happy. And yet…

_What? What else? He IS happy, no?_

Well, Clopinet, I am sad to say you are very innocent and know less of the World than I. For I have been lurking some long time, and I have seen that things are not always as they seem. The brightest of lights may yet be the bringer of the most miserable shadows, it is true. The world is, sometimes, a very Masquerade, a devil's Masquerade, and we must learn to tell the light from the dark, the diamonds from the rough, the angels from the demons who hide behind their masks of kindness and friendship.

_But – how can you tell?_

Ah, that is the difficulty, my puppet. That is what Quasimodo has learned, learned the hard way, save for the help of his trustworthy friends who learned also never to judge by false appearance. Quasimodo is happy, yes, happy _now_, because he knows how to look beyond the masks.

_How did he do it? How, how?_

Hush, and I will tell you, puppet. I will tellyou all the tale of the Masks, and it begins with, of course, three new faces to the city of Paris. We cannot have masks without something to hide, you know…


	2. The First New Face

_Okay, let me preface this by saying I didn't even like Disney's _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ much. I have no idea why I came up with such a developed story and why it insisted it be written, but it was so easy to write, so I guess as Frollo would say, "The Lord works in mysterious ways," haha. As with my story _Mulan: The Flowers of Spring_, this is an attempt to create a true-to-the-story sequel for Disney's HOND. _

_I decided to incorporate characters from Victor Hugo's novel, but give them a new task in the story, much as Disney did with the characters in the first movie. Those of you who have read the book will have a general idea of how things turn out but will hopefully be glad to see some familiar faces, while those of you who haven't read the book should be nicely surprised. BTW, Mariette is my own character, sort of, based upon the little girl at the end of the first film. (May I say I can NOT believe someone else wrote a story with a "Mariette" in it? I thought I practically invented that name. :P) And oh my word, now I love Quasimodo. Writing a character really makes you connect to them – I never realized he was so sweet before. :) I apologize for no real inclusion of Frollo, but nearly all the other stories are all about him so you can find a good deal of him elsewhere, and he does make a few cameos; I also skimped a bit on the Gargoyles, but they were kind of odd in the movie anyway and were really just there to give Quasimodo someone to talk to. So anyway, enjoy, and please review!  
_

**Chapter 1**

**The First New Face**

Morning in Paris, and the city awakes, awakes to a Paris in autumn, when the air is crisp and chilled, the trees are growing bare, and the bells of Notre Dame ring clearly through the sky, calling penitents to renewal and sinners to shame.

But what's this? No shadow in the belltower today? Where is Quasimodo the bellringer, grotesque, hunchbacked, and lame? Why isn't he leaping among the balustrades or swinging upon withered ropes, keeping to darkness rather than face the revealing treachery of the light?

Probably he's not there because he is sitting half submerged in his familiar shadows in the doorway of the cathedral. Probably because he is speaking to his special "Little Friend," Mariette Garouche.

In the six months since Quasimodo's world and life had changed, he had gotten used to sometimes creeping down from his tower (how strange this was to him!) and making his way, shyly, to the doorway of the cathedral. Still far too timid to thrust himself into the public (he didn't want to wear out his welcome, by any means!) he did sometimes cast a friendly smile at a face in church, or allow himself to listen unobserved to the quiet hum of the prayers within. He sometimes spoke to the Archdeacon whose pleasant face and kindly, fatherly manner seemed truly sent by God. And of course there was Esmeralda, in the belltower or in the streets. Oh, her visits were always wonderful.

But today was Monday, and Quasimodo knew eleven o'clock on Monday was reserved for Mariette alone. The sparrows tucked within the cathedral's eaves were witness to a strange sight; the massive, almost globular form of Quasimodo, peering from within the cathedral, and the tiny thin outline of Mariette Garouche, whose wheat-like hair poked out from beneath her kerchief with a lively air.

"Hi Quasimodo!" Mariette said, excitedly, as she ran up for her usual quick visit. "I'm glad I could come and see you today!"

"So am I," Quasimodo replied in his sweet, mild way. "I always look forward to your visits."

"Really?" Mariette smoothed her apron out importantly. "I'm happy for that, since my family – well, since we are peasants. I'm sorry we can't donate more money to the cathedral, like we should," she added, shamefaced.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Quasi said quickly. "No one minds. And Notre Dame has been standing for many years – trust me, I know!" he laughed. "Your _visits _are the important thing."

Mariette smiled, but then looked at him uneasily. "Quasimodo…" she said, as if she were beginning confession.

"What's wrong, Mariette?" Quasimodo brushed a stiff tuft of red hair out of his eyes as he looked at her, concerned.

The peasant child said, slowly, looking at the ground, "I – I have something to tell you. When I was little" (she was the ripe old age of 8 now), "I…used to be afraid of you."

"I can understand why." Quasimodo nodded as if he already knew. "There's no harm in that, Mariette."

"But that's not all," she continued quickly. "I was_ glad _when I found out I had been wrong and that you_ weren't _scary – not even a little bit. I wasn't even nervous then. You are the nicest friend I have."

A wide and clumsly smile spread over Quasi's face when he heard this, and he edged awkwardly out into a strip of light that ran along the stoop. He took something small and wooden from his pocket and hid it in the palm of his great hand – it was a gift he had made for the child, working steadily on it for over a week. It still wasn't perfect – and Quasimodo wanted it to be, very much – but his heart was so overfull he felt he needed to give it to Mariette right now.

"Mariette," he said, softly, "you're my friend, too. And, I – I have something for you."

Unprompted, Mariette smiled and instantly shut her eyes. Assuming this must be a regular part of gift-receiving that he was unaware of, Quasimodo just placed the gift into her hands without much ceremony.

Mariette opened her eyes and saw that Quasimodo had given her a tiny wooden figure that looked exactly like her, flyaway flaxen hair and snub nose and skinny legs and all. She knew he had made it because he had told her stories about how he watched the people in the square and carved them out of wood.

"_Quasimodo_," she breathed, gently taking the miniature up for a closer look, "it's beautiful!" She turned it slowly round and round, examining the careful carving and brilliant colors the hunchback had brushed over the smoothly sanded surface. Her eyes were shining when she looked at him. "Can I keep it?"

"Yes, oh yes!" Quasimodo nodded fervently, realizing for the first time that this was probably the only toy the child had ever been given. "I made it just for you, after all."

Mariette looked at it a moment longer. "I think I'll leave it here, with you, Quasi," she said thoughtfully as she handed it back. "That way, you can put it in your little village, and then…" she added hopefully, "I could come and look at it and play with it and the other carvings sometimes?"

"You mean in the belltower?" Quasimodo asked blankly, for a moment dumbfounded.

"Yes," was her simple reply.

Quasimodo, recovering his senses at last, smiled. "I would like that very much, my little friend."

Beaming, Mariette threw herself into his arms, causing him to gasp in surprise, then soften, and to pat her on the shoulder, holding his breath as though it would help keep him from breaking her.

"Thank you, Quasimodo!" she said, her voice muffled in his shirt. "You are so very kind! But," she added, disappointed, as she pulled back and looked up at him, "I have to go now. Mama is expecting me. I'll come back soon, though!"

"Good bye, Mariette!" Quasimodo called, waving after her as she ran into the street, and clutching the little toy in his massive hand as delicately as if it had been a moth.

Whenever Mariette left, Quasimodo always felt a brief pang of sadness. It was like letting a bird go out of one's hands, to fly far away and out of sight. Yet she always came back, he knew, for no reason but his friendship. That was strange to him, indeed.

"Well there's no point in hanging around the doorway any longer," Quasimodo decided finally. Retreating back within the cathedral walls, Quasimodo was instantly drenched in the cool blue light reflecting from the polished surfaces. How serene it was there! The hunchback had always called Notre Dame home – it _was_ his home – and yet now, there seemed to be so fewer shadows within, so much more light!

Quasi limped through the hallowed corridors, emptied of priests gone to pray and parishioners gone for the midday work, and began the slow ascent to _his_ kingdom – to his belltower in the sky. It took several steps up the shaky, contorted wooden stairway to reach it, which is understandably difficult when one is hunchbacked and lame. But once Quasi was there at last, it was like his heaven. The heaven he had made.

As Quasimodo reached the dusty landing, he saw that the early sun struck the baubles on his little mobile and cast shapes of colored light across his tiny wooden village. He hobbled over to his work table to survey the scene. "Why, little Mariette belongs _here_." Quasimodo placed the figure of the child directly under a bright patch of fuchsia light, which illuminated her peasant clothes with a sweet glow. Quasimodo smiled with satisfaction. "Do you know," he said, half to himself and half to the army of grotesque gargoyles that littered the room, "Mariette reminds me of the little birds that used to visit me. You remember, don't you? It seems very long ago, now."

Quasimodo had spoken to them so often in his loneliness, had so often imagined all the things they might have said to him could they speak, that now he sometimes heard their words in his mind – whether he intended to or not.

At the moment, Quasimodo heard the shortish goat-shaped one, Hugo, reply, _"Sure Quasi! You __**bet **__I remember. Those things don't taste like chicken, I'll tell you that. Not when they build nests in your MOUTH, ugh, nasty – "_

And then austere bat-shaped Victor interrupted genteelly, " _– It is entirely beside the point, Hugo, whether or not they make a good entrée: the Point is that she is one of Quasimodo's true friends, like the birds were – "_

And then Hugo stuck out his tongue, and shrewd Laverne concluded, _"It's because, just like the birds, Quasi, you helped her to believe in herself, to spread her wings. And she's taught you a few things too, sonny boy."_

Quasimodo was cheered by the words. "To think," he whispered to himself, as if he were in a dream, "I _inspired_ someone. I encouraged them. I made them feel _good_, instead of frightened!" And he burst out into the open, onto his perch outside the tower, miles above the city. "I'm _so happy_!"

Happiness can quite illuminate even the ugliest of faces. Some might have said that, at this moment, Quasimodo was almost beautiful.

With a small smile lingering on his face, he leapt easily between the gaps in the cathedral architecture, peering down into the square below in the hopes he could perhaps catch a glimpse of Esmeralda. The sight of her fearless winding through the crowd, of her dark hair and figure and her dress vivid as a butterfly's wing, was the only thing that could makes such a day better, and he hoped to catch her for a conversation. But – "That's strange – " he didn't see a single gypsy in the crowd. Shading his eyes with one hand, he grasped one of the pillars of the nearest flying buttress and swung himself downward a few feet. The view was closer, and at a different angle, and yet he could not detect the flash of a single bell or spot of exotic color. There were no gypsies, and of greater concern to Quasimodo, no Esmeralda. He was not frightened for Esmeralda and her people – ever since, well…some time ago, more of the villagers tolerated them than hated them. But it _was_ odd.

Quasimodo was furrowing his brow in preparation for some thinking when, suddenly, he spotted something even stranger than gypsies – a newcomer to the town square. Now Quasi, of course, knew every citizen to the point, as Hugo's expression went, _"Of being kinda creepy."_ But this person was no one Quasi recognized. He was a youth a few years younger than Quasimodo himself, a little slender but still hearty, with a mop of pale curls tumbling from beneath a dark dome-like skullcap. Though he seemed a bit tattered, from what Quasi could tell from his perch he also seemed to carry himself more proudly than the rest of the villagers. Quasimodo stared and leaned away from the stone ledges to get a better view. "He seems…familiar," he remarked, slowly. He imagined Laverne would suggest the boy just had _"One of those faces."_

And then, as he looked, it struck him. It struck him hard and fast, and if he weren't the bellringer of Notre Dame who had lived there all his life and developed an apelike sense of balance, he might have fallen off the ledge to the merciless street below.

Because, my friend, that lad was none other than Monsieur Jehan Frollo, younger brother of the esteemed Judge Claude Frollo. And he was making his way towards the cathedral steps.

Gone in a flash was the sense of near-delirium Quasimodo had so far enjoyed. "M. Jehan?" he questioned, anxiously looking to his gargoyles for some kind of aid as he stumbled back into the dim light of the tower. "What is _he _doing here?"

"_That is the question indeed,"_ seemed to come from Victor's immaculate figure as Quasimodo's nervous glance fell upon him. _"'What?' After all, he left the Cathedral, and the house of Frollo, years ago."_

"_Packed up and hauled out,"_ Quasi thought he heard Hugo add. _"After that fight with Frollo – geez Saint Louise, who can blame him?"_

"But what is he doing _here_?" Quasimodo asked himself. "Now? Doesn't he know Frollo is dead? What if he _doesn't_ know?" Quasi paled at the mere thought. "What will I _tell_ him?"

"_Calm down, Quasi. There's no sense in worryin' __**yourself**__ to death! Maybe it's best to find out what Jehan_ _**is**__ up to, without jumpin' to conclusions. Maybe he's come back for some reason you'd never even suspect!" _Laverne was always sensible. At least, Quasimodo imagined her to be.

Yes. That would be the best thing to do. Ask Jehan himself. With this plan in mind, Quasimodo gulped and began to descend the tower.

By the time Quasimodo had made his way down the tottering steps and was wading his way through the thick light pouring in from the Rose Window, his heart was pounding with anticipation. Why had Jehan returned? What did he want there?

Quasimodo turned the corner, deep in thought, when he spied the broad white back of the Archdeacon's robes. He could see Jehan's scarlet tunic beyond. _They seem to be talking about something important_, Quasi observed, trying to make himself hidden so he could hear better (which was no easy feat for him). But the conversation between the priest and the scholar was quickly over, and as they turned, they both immediately noticed Quasi despite his efforts. As the Archdeacon swept away from Jehan, he passed quickly by Quasimodo, with a special look reserved for the hunchback only. What did it mean? Annoyance with Frollo's brother? A warning sign? Something else?

But Quasimodo's thoughts were cut short as Jehan strode up in his old self-assured manner.

Quasimodo kneeled. "Many blessings upon you, Monsieur Jehan." He had always treated the brother of his Master this way.

"Please, Quasimodo, stand up." Jehan dragged Quasi to his feet. "There. That's a good fellow."

"Things have been…very different in your absence, Master Jehan." The hunchback peered up to examine Jehan's reaction but, to his surprise, Jehan seemed quite informed and even rather melancholy.

"Quasimodo, I appreciate your consideration," he said, "but there's no need to spare me. M. the Archdeacon has already told me of my brother's fate."

"H – he did?" Quasimodo was stunned. That explained the Archdeacon's look, of course. "What – exactly – did he tell you? If I may ask, I mean," he added quickly.

"That he died just this past summer – ah, if only I had come sooner! Quasimodo," he added, as an afterthought, "Did you…well, did you have to – "

"No, I didn't ring the bells. It was considered a suicide."

Jehan simply nodded, hands clasped solemnly behind his back. "Well then. What's done is done. It cannot be undone, right?" He looked up, brightening, and his casual look reminded Quasimodo of the old days. "I guess you want to know why I'm here. You look confused enough."

"Oh," Quasi spluttered, "I _would _– I mean, if you don't mind – "

"I don't mind. Quasi, I'm sure you're familiar with the story of the Prodigal Son, am I right?"

"Of course." Quasimodo had often picked that story for his 100-Bible-verses-a-day-task.

"Well Quasi, that is _my _story. I have fallen upon hard times, my friend, extremely hard times, and I think it must be a message from God," he said piously. "I can't keep living as I have – both monetarily and metaphorically-speaking – only for myself. So, I am repenting, begging forgiveness for my past crimes."

Quasimodo could hardly open his mouth. He managed to say "oh," and that was it. This was not at all the self-centered and shallow Jehan he recalled, not at all. This Jehan was repentant and humbled and meek, and Quasimodo wasn't sure to think about it. They walked through the church a bit, in silence.

"But if you have no money, Jehan – where are you going to live?" Quasimodo asked at last. "I mean – how are you going to survive?"

"I shall beg, I suppose," Jehan replied rather lightly, considering the topic.

"But Jehan, you can't do that! Quasimodo protested. He knew very well that, with his priggish and lazy background, Jehan couldn't survive out there without offending a truand who would promptly kill him.

"Maybe so, but it is my doom, Quasimodo. It's my own fault. _Mea culpa,_ as the Romans say, my fault_._"

Quasimodo furrowed his brow.

"_Although_," Jehan added at length, "I had another suggestion – it is one reason why I returned to the cathedral's sanctuary, despite the ill memories it holds for me…"

Quasimodo looked at him suspiciously, but Jehan simply threw his arm casually across the hunchback's mishapen shoulder. "My dear friend, I was wondering, perhaps, if you would permit me to live here in the cathedral – temporarily, of course – with you?"

"W – with…you mean you want to live HERE?"

Jehan nodded. "What do you say?"

The hunchback hesitated and tried, despite his confused thoughts, to judge Jehan's motive (which was not easy, as Quasimodo wasn't naturally suspicious). Jehan had left two years ago headstrong and self-absorbed. _Is he just using the cathedral…and me? _Quasimodo asked himself uneasily. The goodness and earnest sympathy inside his kernel of a heart felt for the lad, for his disheveled and draggled appearance and for his penitence. And yet – Quasi scolded himself for it, but still it remained – within Jehan's youthful face he could find traces of Frollo's own image, and it repelled him violently. He lowered his eyes.

"Why, Quasimodo," Jehan remarked reproachfully during this pause, "we used to be very good friends! Certainly _you_ wouldn't judge me by appearances?"

"Oh, no!" the hunchback gasped in dismay, vehemently shaking his head. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it! It's just that, well – "

"I didn't think so, my friend. I didn't think you had it in you. Yes, I am my brother's brother, yes, I have fallen on hard times – I will not lie to you – but I am looking for a new start. Will you help me?"

Quasimodo sighed. Was it foolish of him to accept Jehan? Maybe. _Probably._ But he had to give Jehan a try – it was the right thing to do. _Who knows?_ Quasimodo told himself. _Everybody deserves a chance to make things right, and maybe being here in Notre Dame will do Jehan some good, in the end._

"Very well, Jehan. But I will have to learn to trust you. This – " he gestured to the towering walls, covering the entire space with the broad sweep of his forearm, "is my sanctuary, you know, and I'm not used to strangers."

Did Jehan's face fall, or at least change, for a moment – almost imperceptibly? Quasimodo wondered if he were perhaps being too harsh on the boy, but his fears were scattered as a merry smile broke upon Jehan's face.

"Very well, Quasimodo," he said with a sort of resigned cheerfulness. "Your home, your rules. I should, instead, think you for you hospitality."

"You're welcome," replied the hunchback, unnecessarily, with a hesitant smile of his own.

But as they receded into the vast vaulted hall beyond, the stone-faced saints stared down upon the pair, and frowned for the damage to come.


	3. The Second New Face

_FWIW, Gringoire, who appears in this chapter, is based upon the character in Victor Hugo's nove but with a Disneyfied flair. __He was partially inspired by the character Miguel from the film "The Road to El Dorado" and so, as a result, I imagine Gringoire having the British accent of Kenneth Branagh in that movie, haha. Anything to help you establish the character in your mind._

**Chapter 2**

**The Second New Face**

Let it be known, my friend, that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Let it be known that, although you may happen across a meagre pittance of bread and cheese and sausage, wrapped in a coarse cloth, and left on the street with the flies buzzing around it in rather an unappetizing manner, it may NOT be without an owner. And pray to the saints and your god that this owner is no gypsy, for if one of their race discovers you eating said lunch…well, it will not go well with thee.

So discovered Pierre Gringoire who was, in every sense of the word, a starving artist.

Gringoire was what is called a dreamer, meaning to say, that he relied on the wit of everyone else while pondering the mysteries of this world himself. He was, in his own opinion, a genius, but then genius isn't always appreciated by the masses and so he starved anyway.

On this bright day two weeks before Michaelmas Gringoire ought to have been composing an unintentionally comical sonnet to the meadowlark or some such thing and making use of his mighty mind, but instead he found himself in the unfortunate predicament of being accosted by five gypsies and dragged from his world of light and air down into their world of shadow and mischief.

"I beg your pardon!" Gringoire cried miserably in his thin voice, his eyes stung sharply by the thick darkness that surrounded him. (It should probably be noted that his mouth was still full.) "Have pity on a poor soul! I thought it was left behind. I didn't really mean to steal from you! It's just that I'm_ so hungry_…"

"Yes, but you don't have to dance or sing or tell fortunes for your bread. And you don't have your bread stolen from you when you finally have it."

"True," Gringoire considered, thinking out the meaning of it all, but then he suddenly snapped back to attention and began thrashing wildly in an attempt to free himself. "Wait! Please, stop, I'm sorry! Let me go and –"

The gypsies paused for a moment in order to allow him to make his offer. Unfortunately, Gringoire hadn't thought it out that far.

"Um…." he trailed off, thinking furiously. "How about, you let me go," he proposed finally, "and I, when I publish this play I have _here_," he tapped a packet of parchment in his tunic pocket with satisfaction, "which is certainly a Work of Art, I'll buy you _all the bread you want_!"

"Yeah, well your genius hasn't provided you any money for food so far," said one small-eyed gypsy flatly, "or you wouldn't be stealing ours."

"True," Gringoire conceded, "that's the case _so far_. BUT I am really quite innocent, innocent as a saint! I am a mere poet!"

"Well your rhymes had better impress the King," responded one rough, burly fellow with a dirty kerchief knotted around his head and a cruel gnarled earring in one ear. "Or else – "

"Or else there will be a lovely rope necklace in it for you!" finished his red-bearded companion, with a mean laugh.

The King? This silenced Gringoire's frenzied pleas for a moment (he had the attention span of a gnat). How charming. Gringoire had his suspicions as to why they would be taking him underground, as he had always assumed the king lived in the palace, but then Gringoire knew very little about the habits of the Royals nowadays.

Thoughtful as he was dragged along by his captors, he wasn't sure whether his eyes were adjusting to the darkness or if he actually saw real torches lining the walls in the distance, but as he neared them he could soon distinguish them clearly. Their trembling flames gave the subterranean tunnel a sickly greenish glow; it was like the very image of the earthy stench that filled the air.

"When do I get to meet the king?" Gringoire asked.

"Soon."

Gringoire regretted that he was so shabby, and made attempts to spruce himself up (which mostly consisted of brushing cheese crumbs off his tunic, setting his pointed hat straight, and making a swipe at his short brown hair), and composed a nice little rhyme for recitation.

And then suddenly, there he was! He supposed he was in the receiving room or whatnot as there was a massive crowd of gypsies, clad in the most brilliant of colors and numerous sparkling jewels, awaiting his appearance. (Now we know why Quasimodo saw no gypsies on the street this morning.)

It was really quite affecting to the senses. He then realized that one of the five who had helped to capture him must have run ahead to announce his presence. To be perfectly honest, for a Villain awaiting judgement and possibly Death, he was rather excited.

The two men who had been 'escorting' him hauled Gringoire to his feet where he tottered a bit, disoriented. He carefully gathered his one piece of finery – a long cape, made of the most sumptuous and artistic purple velvet – away from the grime of the ground, and found they had pointed him at a stage or podium of some sort. Gringoire looked at it and, as he was looking, someone appeared on it. His recent lunch now felt like a stone in his stomach.

This Someone was the devilishly handsome (if this narrator may take the liberty) Clopin Trouillefou – Clopin, King of the Gypsies, Emperor of Truands, one-of-a-kind original and storyteller extraordinaire! With his small voracious eyes, he looked at Gringoire, who stood there blankly (as was his usual custom). Clopin rubbed his spindle hands together greedily.

"You have a prisoner for me, my lads?" he inquired, with overdone grandeur, to the four who towed Gringoire along.

"This one was stealing provisions," the red-bearded one announced. "Says he's a poet, but we're not so sure. He's an unsuccessful one, at any rate. You can deal with him as you see fit, King Clopin."

"Ah, so you are the King!" Gringoire cried. Because of his extensive reading, he knew how to behave at court. He cleared his throat, settled his face into a respectful expression, and gave an impressive bow.

Clopin looked at it. "I like him," he said approvingly.

"Your Majesty," Gringoire pursued, "I beg your humble mercy for a poor citizen of France. I admit, I am a scoundrel, but it is only to save my own life! I would starve because my mind tells me to live on dreams, and not on bread."

"He thinks you are the King," said the larger of Gringoire's two escorts, in a whisper to Clopin.

"I _am_ King," said Clopin, narrowing his eyes with a frown.

"Yes, but he thinks you're the King of _France_."

Clopin opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and shut it again.

"You there," he addressed Gringoire sharply, "who am I?"

"Why, you are the King," Gringoire responded. "Of course."

Clopin removed his hat to scratch his head in confusion. "Yes, but I am the King of the…" Clopin gave him a moment to answer, which was pointless, "Gypsies. You know?"

"Oh. Gypsies?" Gringoire's face fell. Now there would be no opportunity to impress the monarch with his wit and rhymes and gain position as court playwright. Gypsies had no taste. "Well," he said, sadly, "I wasn't sure."

"You didn't _really think_ I was the King of France, did you?" Clopin asked, expressionless. Even he didn't think this was all that funny.

"Well, yes."

Clopin blinked.

"I'm a poet," Gringoire said, by way of explanation.

"Oh. Oh, that explains it." Clopin was relieved. "A scoundrel-poet. A poet-scoundrel. Who steals bread from our people!" As he spoke, he strode across the length of the stage, working himself into a high state of indignation. "How selfish, when you are one of those fortunates who can walk into any baker's and buy a penny loaf!"

"Technically, that's true," Gringoire admitted, "if I had money, but I am _so poor_!"

"Well that doesn't mean a Frenchman can be a thief, does it, my friends?" Clopin appealed to the crowd with his more normal dignity, cupping his hand round his ear.

"NO!"

"I agree! And what does that mean?"

"EXECUTION!"

"Music to my ears!" Clopin trilled, as the poet was hauled onto the stage by a pair of Clopin's henchmen.

"Oh, watch the cape, watch the cape!" Gringoire cried, snatching up its trailing him to safety as he was dragged along. He looked at Clopin piteously. "You will put me to death for such a small crime?" he protested.

"For treachery against the Gypsies," Clopin responded, tilting his nose and looking down it at Gringoire. "Hardly a petty crime, hardly, hardly! What do you think, Clopinet?"

He appealed, curiously, to a little handpuppet made in his image.

"_Cut off his head!"_ cried the bloodthirsty puppet, much to Gringoire's horror.

"Oh dear, you naughty boy. We are vengeful today, when as King and Royal Puppet we should be merciful. Instead, let us consult," suggested Clopin, grandly, "the Wheel of Fortune!" Clopin threw something to the ground, violently, and amidst a cloud of swirling violet fog a massive, splintered wooden wheel appeared. Gringoire blanched a bit. Upon each of the wheel's sixteen painted divisions (Gringoire may have been nervous, but for an educated man arithmetic still pertains to even the most trying circumstances) were painted crudely in garish colors scenes of the most exquisite torture.

Clopin, however, was practically prancing about with glee. "Shall we?" he suggested. "Shall we give it a whirl, my friends?" The crowd of gypsies applauded and shouted in eager anticipation. In their opinion any occasion, even an execution, was worth celebrating. "Well then, Pierre Gringoire," cried the King, "this is your fate!"

Clopin practically lifted himself off the ground as he clung to the top peg of the wheel and set it in fast rotation. Whirrrrrr went the Wheel of Fortune, faster and faster, as though some demonic spirits were presiding over the ceremony – round and round and round, each color blurring into the next, each scene more grisly in its every successive orbit. Finally, as Gringoire was clinging to his cloak with one hand and biting the fingernails of his other to the nubs, the wheel slowed, and it tick…tick…ticked, into its final spot. (Clopin, personally, was hoping for the hanging.)

Gringoire took one look at it, and blanched to the tips of his toes. "I am…" he said, in hoarse disbelief, "_to be eaten by sea monsters_?"

"You are!" cried Clopin automatic and grandly. Then he thought about it. Then he frowned. Then he turned around and looked at the fated wheel curiously.

"Well that's a dirty trick," he grumbled. "No sea monsters for miles around." But you must remember that you don't get to be Gypsy King without creativity. Casually, Clopin stamped at the ground, and the motion set the wheel ticking to the next, more convenient spot. He peered in for a closer look. "Ah!" he cried cheerfully. "Even better (or worse) than sea monsters – MARRIAGE!"

Now it was clear this would have been a nice dramatic scene – if Someone hadn't interrupted it with "Oh Clopin, don't you have anything better to do than drag outsiders down here and execute them?" At this exclamation, all the eager eyes left their fixture on the Gypsy King and his prisoner to settle on the newcomer instead.

It was La Esmeralda.

Clopin was extremely injured on two accounts, the first being that he was interrupted and ignored, which no showman likes; the second being that he wasn't paid the respect his rank (albeit self-declared) was due, by any stretch of the imagination. "That is _King_ Clopin to you, Mademoiselle La Esmeralda," he responded with a jaunty performer's bow and a false smile that presented a dazzling array of gaps and gold caps. "And I execute people – in _my_ Court – for theft and grievous crimes."

Esmeralda simply rolled her beautiful green eyes (from which she drew her name), planted her hand on her hip, and threw back her sea-colored hood, prepared to watch the proceedings with utter disdain and to interject heckling when appropriate.

Delicately, Clopin continued with a hidden scowl at Esmeralda. "Now then. Marriage. The eternal prison and torture, M. Gringoire! Let's have a look at him, ladies, shall we?" He snatched the poet roughly by his chin, like a horse, and revolved around him as he examined him. "A gangly fellow we have here – a fellow who is not – all – here," he added, with three raps at Gringoire's head (which was true). "A promising unpaying career, and a shabby appearance – and…" he added, wrinkling his nose, "hmm, he smells a bit like_ cheese_…why, who wouldn't want this fine prize? Come, ladies, come! Who shall cast the first bid?"

Gringoire was not much pleased with Clopin's selling tactics, but he looked hopefully out into the sea of faces.

At the same time, La Esmeralda, shrouded in the back of the crowd, looked at _him, _or rather studied him. The poet had a very…expressive face, Esmeralda decided; whereas the face of a certain _other _person of interest to her usually wore a perpetual smirk of sarcasm (which was both irritating and intriguing, Esmeralda had to admit, picturing it in her mind), this sensitive Gringoire seemed to cycle through the range of emotions as fast as his features would assume them. He was not quite so thin as Clopin (then again, Esmeralda wasn't sure any living person could be so thin as Clopin) but he was infinitely shabbier than any of the gypsies, and dirty as a horse's hooves. She also thought he was rather…addle-brained. But he didn't seem to be aware of it, which she supposed was a good thing for him, and by the way he tended to his majestic cape, she figured he took pride in this emblem of his creative spirit. And despite his awkward appearance, as Esmeralda looked at him, she realized his eyes were big and soulful. And nervous.

After several minutes of deliberation, it was clear there were no takers, which pleased the Gypsy King beyond delight. That meant a hanging after all, and Clopin was very fond of nooses.

"Well well, then," he cried, consulting his puppet alter-ego. "That means a verdict has been made, yes?"

"_Yes_!"

Clopin was about to make a clever response to Clopinet when, suddenly –

"No. _I'll_ take him." The decided voice burst from the crowd. Clopin looked, and Clopinet looked, and there was Esmeralda being difficult again. Without another word, Esmeralda pushed her way briskly through the mass of her people and leapt lightly to the stage. Her little pet goat, the clever Djali, bounded up at her heels.

"Esmeralda, Esmeralda," Clopin clucked, shaking his head in dismay and irritation. "Now _please_ tell me WHY a lovely girl such as yourself would want to be tied for life to a fool like this?"

"I'm no fool!" Gringoire protested once more, wrenching his hands out of the grasp of the gypsy henchmen. He could apply himself when necessary, and now he looked at Esmeralda appealingly. "I am a traveler. I have seen the world. And I am a poet. A very fine poet! But the public doesn't appreciate my vision, and I suffer for it."

"He is a dreamer of dreams, this one," remarked Clopin without much interest.

"I don't care," Esmeralda retorted. "What hypocrites we would be, Clopin, if we were to punish, to _hang_ this man for theft. Theft! Now, tell me, Clopin," she continued, stepping back and surveying the king critically from head to toe, a finger upon her chin, "where did you get that ring on your finger? A jeweler's shop? I don't think so. Or how about the feather in your hat? Or those earrings, or those _charming _shoes – "

"That is beside the point!" Clopin interrupted, clearly displeased. How dare she speak to the king that way? "But if you want to marry this useless sack of…nonsense," he improvised, with hauteur, "who am I to stop you?"

"You _can't_ stop me," Esmeralda returned. "Isn't that right, Djali?" Djali bleated his assent.

Clopin frowned. "Well then, Esmeralda, here you are." He grasped Gringoire by the elbow and hurled him, stumbling, to the girl's side. "What beautiful children you will make. Ugly features from him and an ugly temper from you."

Esmeralda simply smiled triumphantly. "Thank you, Clopin."

But the King could no longer stand the sight of her. "Begone!" he cried, and Clopinet echoed, _"Begone!"_

Esmeralda curtsied smartly, and then jumped from the stage, pulling the poet along behind her. Djali cut a path through the amazed crowd by butting everyone out of the way.

"What just happened?" Gringoire managed to ask, tripping along behind Esmeralda as she held his hand.

"I just saved your life."

"Right…." Gringoire was still in a daze. But then it hit him. "You **saved** me!" he cried in amazement. "Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you thank you – "

"You're welcome," Esmeralda said.

"I usually don't get myself into such predicaments."

"Oh, really?"

"No. I am usually quite brilliant. But ohhhhh, someone changed the rules and NOW you can't take food left on the street. It wasn't like I wasn't going to repay them or anything once I made my fortune…"

Gringoire ducked as some of the gypsies rained blows upon him for escaping like a coward. Their faces swirled around the pair, as in a nightmare. "Well then," he continued, clearing his throat as they finally emerged from the throng. "I suppose that means we are married."

Esmeralda immediately dropped the hold she had on his hand and shook her head, turning to look him straight in the face. "Um, no. Sorry. Not going to happen."

"But – " Gringoire was obviously confused and stood there, staring at her for a moment.

"Look," Esmeralda said, tactfully. She racked her brain for a way to say this…nicely. "Um, Gringoire. It's Gringoire, right?"

"Monsieur Pierre Gringoire," the poet supplied, "but as you wish."

"Right. Gringoire. You saw what a madman Clopin can be at times, right?"

"How did he _ever_ become King?" Gringoire asked, incredulous.

"Good question," Esmeralda agreed, ruefully shaking her head. "He's not so bad all the time, but when he's set on a hanging, there's little you can do to stop him. That's why I agreed to marry you, to save you. If I plan to marry you, he can't kill you, because you're one of our brothers – those are the rules. And besides," she added, "if you were hungry, why should _we_ stop you? It will help keep Belznik from leaving his meals on the side of the road. You're innocent enough, and I understand why you did what you did. But it's just…" Esmeralda sighed. "I can't _really_ marry you. You're not my type. Understand?"

"Oh, completely," Gringoire nodded. "You aren't my type either."

"Good – " Esmeralda began, relieved, and then paused. "What?"

"What?" the poet echoed blankly.

"I'm not your type?" Esmeralda repeated.

"Oh. No."

Well. This was a new concept. Esmeralda looked at Djali, eyebrows raised, and Djali looked at Esmeralda, stunned. But it was rather a welcome one. At least he wouldn't try to burn her at the stake over his unrequited passion. "Oh," she said, slowly. "Okay. That works out well."

"True. BUT," Gringoire continued, shading his eyes as they moved into the light of the street, "I _am_ in need of a friend. I have been gone from Paris for many years. This city has changed a great deal in that time. I've never seen so many gypsies before."

"What's wrong with that?" Esmeralda whirled upon him, and looked at him narrowly.

"Did I say anything was wrong with it?" Gringoire responded in an offhand manner. "All I'm saying is, I think I'll stick with you for a while."

"For a little while," Esmeralda remarked, with a bit of suspicion. She'd have to watch this one.

But perhaps Esmeralda was not as suspicious as she should have been. Would she have let Monsieur Pierre Gringoire follow her, thread his way at her side through the mill of Parisian villagers, escape without a head of his hair harmed, if she knew who had been his revered teacher at Notre Dame so many years before?


	4. The Third New Face

_To be honest, I'm not sure anyone's really reading this….in fact, I think it might be in the wrong section! Oh well, lol – if you read it, do please leave me a review to let me know what you think, since I'm not the most familiar with HOND fics._ :P

**Chapter 3**

**The Third New Face**

"Where _are_ we going, by the way?" Gringoire asked, incidentally, as the expert Esmeralda ducked between shopkeepers, carts, and busy bustling villagers. "This is the Rue St. Laurent, if I recall correctly."

"You're right," was Esmeralda's vague response. "I'm going to the catherdral of Notre Dame."

"Notre Dame?" Gringoire cried, shocked. "But – you're a gypsy."

"And your point is?"

"Just that, well, you are a heathen," Gringoire said. "Quite an abstract concept, really, a heathen in the cathedral."

Esmeralda gave him one suspicious look. She was beginning to grow weary of Gringoire's impudent questions. _And besides_, she reasoned to herself. _He's safe now. There's no need for him to follow me – he can take care of himself. _So as he stood there, pondering, she made an executive decision and hastened her steps. She darted between a pair of stalls, skipped in front of a cart, and glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't following her.

"Perfect. I think we lost him, Djali – "

"But I forgot to ask _why_ you are going to the cathedral."

Esmeralda groaned as Gringoire appeared before her again as if by magic.

"Well I'm not going _to_ the cathedral, I'm going to meet someone at it. I'm going to meet Captain Phoebus," she added, pointedly, hoping that would shut him up.

"Phoebus de Martin? Captain of the Guard for the Minister of Justice?"

"Formerly…." Esmeralda was standing on tiptoe, hoping to catch a sight of the flash from Phoebus' golden armor, when suddenly she realized something.

"Claude Frollo is dead," she said, shortly. "You knew that, didn't you?"

Gringoire looked utterly amazed. He removed his peaked cap to scratch his head. "You're kidding. He's…dead?"

"Yes. He is." Esmeralda's voice grew quiet as she said this, and her heart began to beat quickly from the memory of it all, from the recollection of the blackness and scarlet fires of that time, of hiding and of flight and of the danger she had caused. She bit her lip, and forced herself to be calm. It was over now, all over. Besides, seeing Phoebus – handsome Phoebus, back from instructing a regiment in a foreign campaign – would cheer her up. Maybe she'd even go to see Quasimodo today. Yes. That's what she would do.

Even Gringoire's incessant prattle was silenced by this announcement, and Esmeralda suspected wryly that he would write a dirge on the subject. He followed her quietly as she led the snaky way through the crowd.

Esmeralda knew that Phoebus had been summoned away to the countryside to instruct a regiment training for a war in Asia Minor. Now that he was no longer employed by Claude Frollo, there was little he could do in Paris and his talents were sought all over the kingdom. She seized the opportunity to be with him whenever she could – and it seemed these moments were growing fewer and far between. She was even concerned – though she hated to admit these weak fears, even to herself – he might be called away to battle in some far-off land. She despised the thought that he was so bound by duty and by his superiors. It seemed, to her, to be some other kind of prison. And gypsies fled from prisons.

Shaking these thoughts from her mind, she again stood on tiptoe to see if she could spot him – she thought, perhaps, she eyed him a few yards in the distance under the shadow cast by the cathedral towers, but she couldn't be sure – when suddenly she heard a small voice pipe up below her. "Esmeralda!"

She looked down. "Ah, Mariette!" she said, happy to see the skinny little wide-eyed peasant child. "Hello. Been to visit Quasimodo today?"

"I have!" Mariette peered around her in a slightly guilty way, then looked back at Esmeralda. It was still tricky business, associating with gypsies, Esmeralda knew, but she admired the little girl's pluck, and her trust in her people. (Even Clopin failed to be entirely majestic when Mariette was around, and had even once picked her up and paraded her as a Paragon.) "Esmeralda, is this a new friend you have?"

Esmeralda followed Mariette's eyes and looked behind her, and found that Gringoire, holding on to his cape, was staring up into the clouds.

"Sort of," she said with a crooked smile.

"Has he seen you dance yet?" Mariette asked craftily.

"Why, Mariette," Esmeralda laughed, "I think you are being a bit of a Scoundrel, yourself! Do you want Gringoire over there to see me dance, or would_ you_ like to?"

"_I'_d like to, also," Mariette confessed. "Oh, please dance, Esmeralda! I wish I could dance like you could!"

"Ah, no you don't." Dancing wasn't always the best talent to have. "But I'll dance anyway. Clear a spot, everyone! Move, Gringoire."

"What's happening?" the poet asked quickly.

"I'm going to amaze you."

Gringoire liked being amazed. He stood next to Djali expectantly as Esmeralda tossed her cloak into his arms.

"Mariette, I only have a tambourine. You'll have to help me be the music. Clap your hands!"

Mariette nodded. Clap. Clap. Clap clap clap. With her little hands, she beat out a jaunty rhythm.

Grinning with uninhibited pleasure at the little girl, Esmeralda gathered up her skirts in one hand, and whipped a small tambourine from the swathed folds of silk tied around her waist. She beat it, clanging, against her hip. What a melody she could draw from it, as if by some strange and exotic magic! And soon, she began to stamp the ground, and beat the tambourine, and to spin and spin!

A crowd of spectators had gathered as quickly as smoke, and they added their clapping and shouting to the rhythmic beat. What a swirling tempest of color Esmeralda seemed to be! Oh, she hadn't danced this well since the Feast of Fools. Her skirts twirled so quickly, so precisely, lapping around her calves to the tinkling of her bracelets and jewels, and the gold coins that rained around her on the street. (She also received her share of unnecessarily attentive gaping, although her dance was rather tame compared to her usual practice.) Faster and faster she twirled and leapt, laughing merrily at Mariette's thrilled squeals and at the attention she loved to steal; she was at the height of her delight, the pinnacle of her brilliant dance, when suddenly she felt herself clutched around her ankle as if by the claw of a bird of prey; she felt herself dragged downwards, disoriented and confused, until she at last lost her balance and collided sharply with the unforgiving cobblestone street below.

"Esmeralda, are you all right?" the gypsy girl heard vaguely, as she struggled angrily to right herself over the throbbing of her head and side.

"What happened?" she mumbled, but as she clambered to her feet and attempted to stand up, she realized her ankle was still clutched, and that a wasted hand was grasping onto her skirt and snatching at her sleeves in an attempt to hold her down.

"Demon! Demon!"

Esmeralda craned her neck, furious, and found that her captor was an old woman, a hideous old woman. Her face was wrinkled and drawn, and her hair was entirely hidden by the tight garments she wore stretched around her face. Her black wimple careened away from her head in sharp broken angles, and as she sat on the side of the street, she looked like some evil bat that had alighted there, and that had no place in the streaming light.

"Let me go!" Esmeralda ordered, pulling on her skirt, her cheeks fiery. "I've done _nothing_ to you!"

"You are a witch from hell!" the woman pursued. "Begone! You have no place in our Father's holy sanctuary! You have no place consorting with the monster in the belltower and corrupting him to greater sin! You and all your people were better when Judge Frollo had you under God's will and might!"

Now Esmeralda never liked to fight an unequal enemy like this – it appalled her sense of justice – but struggle as she might the crone wouldn't free her and still kept her crazy hold, and the clawlike hands now grasped Esmeralda's left arm, their wretched nails cutting tiny red moons up and down her dark skin. As a last resort, the gypsy was about to take a swipe at the withered hand when Mariette rushed to her aid.

"BACK, CHILD!" the woman shrieked as Mariette skidded to a halt a few steps away. "Back! Do you want to be eaten by gypsies? They will devour you as surely as they cast their spells upon their foolish victims! Run, run for your safety, child!"

Mariette stumbled back, clearly shocked and startled, and though she looked at Esmeralda as if to say "I don't believe her," she still disappeared in the crowd to avoid more trouble.

"How _dare_ you – " Esmeralda began, but suddenly, a shadow fell upon both her own body and that of the mad nun's.

"Sister Gudule, release her!" came the imperious voice.

Esmeralda looked up into the glaring light of the sun.

It was Phoebus.

"Sir – " the nun started to argue.

"Release her, Sister Gudule. She does you no harm." Phoebus acted as though he would draw his sword – Esmeralda knew he wouldn't, but she also knew he could make a good bluff – and immediately the shackle-like grip of Sister Gudule's hands loosed their hold. Esmeralda picked herself up angrily, brushing the dirt of the street from her clothes, and stooped to gather Djali into her arms. "You little coward," she whispered dryly, as her anger began to subside, but Djali (in order to detract attention from himself) butted his head towards Gringoire, who had stood there throughout the whole event without so much as shouting in her behalf. Esmeralda's eyes darkened – but then she thought that perhaps he was playing it safe. After all, the gypsies had probably scared him to death just that morning. She couldn't blame him.

And now it was time for _her_ to play it safe. Letting Djali down, she left Gringoire behind and darted away to the safety of the cathedral's shadows. It wasn't long before she heard the clopping of Achilles' hooves.

"Hello there, gypsy witch," Phoebus remarked suavely, with a smart salute. "Getting into trouble again, eh? I can't leave you alone for five minutes."

Esmeralda had been about to throw her arms around him, but he didn't need to be such a smart-aleck.

"I had everything under control, Phoebus," she protested sharply. "I didn't need your help."

"Yes," said Phoebus, with a self-satisfied smile. "You did."

"No," she frowned, "I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"NO I didn't – "

"Yes," Phoebus declared, clasping Esmeralda close to him and kissing her warmly on her bright lips. "You did. Wow," he added, surprised at himself, "I really needed that."

Once released from custody (and why she didn't prove herself by escaping from_ that_ hold, this narrator surely doesn't know…), Esmeralda brushed some mussed strands of hair from her face and looked up at her captain with a roguish smile. "Well," she conceded, "I'll admit, it _was_ a good shortcut." They both laughed.

"By the way," he remarked as if he had no interest, "uh…who was that guy with you?"

"Oh," Esmeralda said, innocently, "you mean the man who was standing with Djali?"

"Yeah."

"Well that would be my husband."

"Oh, of course," Phoebus nodded to himself. "Her husb – YOUR WHAT?" His eyes nearly burst from his skull as he turned to look at her.

"Well that's no way to talk to Madame Pierre Gringoire, wife of Paris' rising playwright," Esmeralda remarked, examining her fingernails.

Phoebus just stood there for a moment, dumbstruck, to the point that Esmeralda grew concerned and explained everything quickly. "I'll pretend I'm engaged to him so Clopin can't technically say anything, and hopefully I can show him that Gringoire will be a friend, or at least of some use, to us."

Phoebus nodded slowly, at last comprehending. "Well, it's a plan at least."

"The only plan we have right now," Esmeralda agreed, but she saw that her joke hadn't been received as well as she expected and so she decided to change the subject to one that was more important anyway.

"So," she said, quietly, her laughter quite gone now, "how long do we have together – before you have to go again?" There was a tinge of resentment in her voice.

Phoebus, who had returned to normalcy, tried to catch her eyes, but she was fiercely adjusting a knot on her skirt. "Well, um, hmm." He scratched his chin. "How does 'as long as you want' sound?"

Esmeralda jerked her head up. "Wait, what? But what about the war?"

"It's none of my concern anymore," Phoebus grinned. "The Archdeacon offered me a position as the Guard of Notre Dame."

"Is that really a job?" Esmeralda asked, suspicious.

"I sure hope so, because it's mine. I don't know what I'm needed for, exactly," he shrugged, "it's not like there's going to be a lot of danger – I mean, it's a church! – and what there is I think Quasimodo could handle all on his own."

"I'm sure of it," Esmeralda smiled. "I feel like I've been neglecting him lately," she added, guiltily. "Even though there's Mariette and some of the townsfolk – well, it's not a lot. He went through so much, and I want to be there for him."

"I'm sure he knows how much you care for him" Phoebus said in a rare serious moment, gently touching her bare shoulder with his great gloved hand. "But I don't think he'll fight a visit, either."

Esmeralda watched absently as Phoebus stepped into the stirrup of Achilles' saddle, but in the second before he became a soldier again and she a vagabond of the streets, she raised herself on her toes, grasped his collar, and kissed him squarely on the jaw.

"What was that for?" he asked, surprised.

Esmeralda had already reached the steps of the cathedral when she called over her shoulder, "Gypsies are thieves, remember? We _take_ what we want!"


	5. Past and Present

**Chapter 4**

**Past and Present**

Esmeralda knew when to take a gamble – and for a gypsy, entering Notre Dame was always a gamble. It didn't matter if the Archdeacon or the Pope or God himself said a gypsy was safe there – the rest of the Universe would still eye them suspiciously or accuse them of theft. "And with that crazy woman outside claiming we're cannibals…" Esmeralda muttered to herself, "I don't want to get Quasimodo in trouble or under suspicion."

But now it was midday and, really, the church should be empty. So with a quick glance around, Esmeralda pressed open the elaborately carved cathedral doors and stepped inside.

The church was divided into several aisles that soared so high Esmeralda had to tilt her head backwards to see the ceiling. But today she kept to the silvery shadows of the side aisles. As she passed onwards towards Quasimodo's staircase, she caught sight of two things. The first was common enough – it was the soft face of the Archdeacon as he moved solemnly through the church. When he recognized her, he give her a fatherly and knowing wink. But the second sight made Esmeralda curious because, as she rounded the corner to the old stairwell she saw – or thought she saw – a bright flash of scarlet which seemed totally out of place in the church. The monks all wore drab clothing, and wealthy parishioners were never allowed back here.

Still, though Esmeralda was intrigued, she was never one to dwell on things for long and so without further ceremony she hitched up her skirt and darted up the wooden stairs to the belltower.

As she neared the landing, Djali's little hooves tapping along behind her, she was welcomed by the stony stares of discarded gargoyles and decrepit statues. She made mocking frowns and grimaces back at them. And then she saw her dear friend, the hunchback of Notre Dame, huddled massively against the window deep in thought, a great silhouette against the afternoon light. Esmeralda smiled.

"Well, Djali!" she exclaimed with a wink, "I never though I'd see the day when Quasimodo was too busy for _me_!" She turned on her heel. "I guess we'd better be going – "

But the clatter and crashing of various pieces of furniture as Quasimodo leapt up and bounded toward her would have convinced her to stay, even if his deadly serious, "Oh no, I just didn't hear you, please stay!" didn't.

"I was only joking, Quasimodo," Esmeralda laughed as he bashfully (though rather firmly) dragged her further into the room. "But you _were_ busy, I can tell. Oh, Quasi! Is that Mariette? It looks just like her!" Esmeralda crouched down to eyelevel of the carved village and pushed the Mariette figure around.

"Does it? Her hair is wrong, I think," Quasimodo said critically.

"No it isn't."

"Well, I put her part on the wrong side," he fretted.

"But her kerchief hides that, silly." Esmeralda replaced the little figure on the table, but nudged the figure of herself closer, as company. "You two are good friends now, aren't you?"

"Oh yes!" Quasimodo gave a lopsided smile. "_I_ think so. Almost as much as _we_ are, you know. Almost_._"

"I'm sorry it's been so long since I've seen you, Quasi," Esmeralda told him. "Clopin's had us busy – the pilgrimages for Michaelmas mean good pickpoc – well, ahem, anyway, we've been busy. I wasn't sure I'd be able to come today, either."

"Oh yes, I wanted to ask you about that – I looked for you today, but I didn't see _any_ gypsies, _anywhere_. What happened?"

"Well, there was going to be an execution in the Court of Miracles," Esmeralda explained, "but of course I wasn't going to stand for _that_. Clopin wanted to hang a poet, a poor soul who stole some food from us. I think he must not be a very _good _poet," she laughed. "He's really down on his luck. But I don't think he's a bad person. I'm hoping Clopin will give him a second chance – for now, though, I think my new friend will be following me everywhere. At least I managed to sneak away from him for a second," she finished, with a smile.

"So…you made a new friend?" Quasimodo asked, nonchalant. "A poet?"

"A new brother, I guess you could say. I hope to introduce him soon."

"Ah."

Esmeralda was sharp enough to know when Quasimodo was a little jealous – if Gringoire had made _Phoebus_ jealous of course Quasi would be too. She stared around her at the little dust particles suspended in the air, and her eyes traveled to the great looming bells around her.

"It must take a lot of strength to ring the bells all the time," she observed, slyly.

"Yes, of course."

Esmeralda eyed Quasimodo, who seemed to be brightening a bit. "Now then," she pursued, clasping her hand behind her back officially, "I want to know how you ring them. I've heard the bells – even gypsies can hear them, you know – and I know they mean different things. But what _do_ they mean?"

"Oh, you want to know?" Quasimodo felt very important – it was almost never that anyone asked about his favorite job and prime source of knowledge. "_Well_," he cleared his throat professionally, "the bells are rung very often. Every hour – "

"I know, I've heard them, and I always think of you," Esmeralda remarked.

"Oh. Oh dear." At this declaration, Quasimodo swallowed and pretty much basically forgot everything he had planned to say. "And um…they are also used to uh…to announce the Mass, Matins, and Vespers, to announce the Angelus at noon, and to celebrate the saints. They are used for funerals…and… at weddings," he added, for no particular reason.

"Ah. Hear that, Djali?" Djali guiltily snapped to attention. "Wow, they really are used for everything, aren't they?"

Esmeralda peered up into the depths of Big Marie (who was her favorite) and listened intently as Quasimodo continued.

"Yes. And they are used to say things, as well. There's a sort of bellringer's code. When someone is in danger, for instance, I am ordered to ring Anne-Marie – the little one there – ten times, and the monks and priests can pray for salvation. "The voice of the Lord is in power;" that's what the bell means."

"So that means you have saved people, then, Quasimodo?" Esmeralda asked, seriously, removing her attention from Big Marie and looking at him in her usual artless way. "Saved their lives by ringing the bells?"

Well, he had never thought of it that way. "I suppose so," he said, slowly. "Well_, I_ don't save them. God saves them and the priests ask God so that is not my doing. Anyway," he said, searching despearately for some way to change the subject, "Anne-Marie doesn't like to make a fuss, as she's so shy." The words had barely escaped Quasi's throat before he flushed scarlet, from his locks of unkempt hair to the collar of his tunic. "Well, she would be, if she were alive," he explained apologetically.

Esmeralda gave a breezy grin. "Who says she's not alive? She sings, doesn't she? She dances, doesn't she? _I've_ never seen such graceful swaying, at least. I wish I were that good! And she and Louise-Marie and Jean-Marie and all the others have been pleasant companions to you for a while now."

Quasimodo smiled gratefully, and Esmeralda was glad of it. She knew he was rather embarassed by the imaginative habits he'd developed in his isolation, but they didn't bother _her_ at all. She actually thought they were very clever, and rather sweet.

"Oh, by the way, I had an adventure myself today," she teased as she walked out into the open, sat down, and swung her feet over the city. Quasimodo awkwardly sat down beside her (his knees weren't known for consistently bending on demand). "I was dancing in the street with Mariette on my way here, and this madwoman – a nun I guess, from her clothes – attacked me!"

"Really?" Quasimodo looked terrified. "I'm glad you're all right!"

"But that's not the worst of it, Quasi. She said I would EAT Mariette! Have you ever heard anything crazier in your life? Mariette's cute and all but not exactly_ haute cuisine_," she said wryly. But she was surprised to find an uneasy look on her friend's face.

"So, uh, you said you saw Captain Phoebus today?" he asked in an obvious effort to change the subject.

"Wait a second, Quasimodo – you know something."

"No I don't – "

"Tell me." As if Quasimodo wasn't nervous enough, she was now about three inches from his face and looking at him intently. "Who is this mad nun – Sister Gudule?"

"Oh, uh, well…" Quasimodo cleared his throat and scrubbed at the back of his neck. "Sister Gudule…now I never did believe her, mind you, but…" he trailed off under Esmeralda's sharp and searching glare. "_But she says the gypsies ate her child_," he choked.

"WHAT?" Esmeralda jumped to her feet and looked at Quasimodo in disbelief. She was horrified. "You can't be serious, Quasimodo! My people would never do such a thing! _No one_ does _that_!"

"Of course _I_ know that," Quasimodo insisted, with a red face, "but you must understand, Esmeralda. Sister Gudule has lived a very hard life, and she has strange ideas."

Visibly fuming, Esmeralda willed herself to sit back down and hear the story out. "Go on."

"The story I've heard is that, many many years ago, as a nun in the Foundling's Hospital Sister Gudule took a poor abandoned child there, and raised her as her own. She only tended it for a few months, but she grew to love it. That child meant _everything_ to her, Esmeralda," he explained, quietly. Esmeralda's face softened in involuntary sympathy, but still her look was stormy. "One day," Quasimodo continued, hesitantly, "she lost the child. She searched the streets high and low, but she couldn't find it. She was sure the gypsies had taken it, as they departed the city soon after. And so she hated them for their theft. It was a hatred that grew out of sadness."

Esmeralda shifted uncomfortably. She was troubled, and Quasimodo wished he'd held his silence. "That's all," he muttered.

Esmeralda's green eyes flickered like a stormy sea. "I'm very sorry for her," she said. "I'm sorry for her sadness and her loss, and _if_ the gypsies took her child that was horribly wrong and unforgivable. But despite her sadness, she just can't hate and harm others and force her sadness and fear on them. That's wrong, too."

In the silence that followed, a thought struck Esmeralda. "Quasi, you've lived in the belltower all these years. Where did you hear that story?"

The hunchback paused. "Frollo."

"Mmm. Of course." Esmeralda bit her lip. She wondered if it was even true. "Oh, and who was that person in the church today?" she asked, just now remembering it.

"Who?"

"I don't know. It was someone wearing red?"

"Ah…yes." Quasimodo paused. "I – I had a visitor today. His name is…Jehan. I'm surprised you already saw him," he added under his breath.

Maybe Esmeralda was imagining things, but did Quasimodo sound slightly guilty as he said that? She eyed him curiously.

"Yes, Quasimodo, but – who _is_ he?"

"Oh. He is the…well, the younger brother…of my master. Frollo I mean."

Esmeralda whirled in disbelief. "FROLLO? FROLLO'S BROTHER? Quasimodo, you must be joking. After all Frollo put you through, you'd welcome his brother so easily?"

"Jehan never did anything to _me."_ Quasi felt terribly foolish (and for the first time ever he was not exactly feeling comfortable with Esmeralda). What he was doing was right – wasn't it? "Everyone deserves a chance," he mumbled, more to himself than Esmeralda. But the gypsy heard him, of course.

"Oh, Quasimodo," she sighed, with a troubled frown.

"Really he does," Quasimodo tried to assure her, "it's just that…well, think of it this way. Imagine Jehan's position, Esmeralda, his curse. Imagine how hard it must be, to grow up in the shadow of such a man, to share his name and his blood and know you can never get away, never separate yourself from him, no matter how hard you try."

"I think you could imagine that better than me, Quasimodo."

"Maybe. But at least I'm free of him now."

"As free as you'll ever be." She laid her hand tenderly across his. And she had to admit, against all her better judgment, he was right in his decision about the brother, Jehan. He had been right about her, hadn't he? "Well, Quasimodo," she said, wrapping her arms around her waist impatiently, "you're a greater saint that I am, I'll tell you that."

Quasimodo was immediately put at ease by her approval. "Well, living in a church your whole life will do that to you." He gave a clumsy laugh.

"I guess you're right. But Quasi," she added, with a serious glance, "I want you to be careful, okay? You – you don't owe anybody anything – so don't make Jehan into any less or more than he really is."

"I won't," Quasimodo answered, earnestly. "I won't."

Esmeralda smiled. "Good. Now then, I guess I need to get going. I have to show my new gypsy student the ropes – or Clopin will, if you know what I mean."

"I know," Quasi nodded, offering his hand as she jumped to her feet. As she swept past him towards the staircase she paused, turned, and after a moment's deliberation, she kissed him on the cheek. It was as light as if an angel had kissed him, and when he at last regained his senses he realized she had disappeared.

Esmeralda, as she stepped down the wretched wooden staircase, as she came into the cool clear hallways, as she drifted through the jewellike light of the rose window, was so absorbed in considering Quasimodo's latest endeavor that the sight of Phoebus completely startled her. "What are_ you_ doing here?" she demanded.

"The job starts today." He looked quite roguish. "Didn't I tell you?" But his joke was basically spoiled because Esmeralda was in no playful mood – she was in a very serious mood, it was clear, and Phoebus couldn't help but snap to attention.

"Phoebus," she said at last, looking up into his small eyes, "I'm worried about Quasimodo. I think he's too kind for his own good." She sighed regretfully. "Just, keep an eye on him, okay? Make sure he stays out of trouble."

"I will, Esmeralda," Phoebus vowed. "For your sake."

"For _his_ sake," Esmeralda corrected him.

"Well then, for his, too." Phoebus stood at his full height. "I won't disappoint you, Esmeralda."

"Thanks Phoebus. Good night."

And then she dropped into the quickly falling night, as if she were herself a ray of light that had been stolen by the shadows.


	6. Reprise on a Former Theme

**Chapter 5**

**Reprise on a Former Theme**

Quasimodo's talk with Esmeralda had unsettled him. Surely his choice was right –

"But how am _I_ supposed to know?" he groaned, raking his hand through his lank reddish hair, "when I've lived alone in the belltower all this time? I mean, Esmeralda's seen the world, she's got to know more than I do…." He sank down at his worktable and nudged the figure of Esmeralda throughout the miniature square. "Maybe I should just listen to her."

"_Well she __**is **__a gypsy, she's traveled and worldly, and though not perhaps the most trusting of beauties, she certainly knows what she's talking about,"_ Victor declared_. "Listen to her."_

"_Are you kidding me? No way! She's a great dame and all, but she doesn't know __**anything **__about Jehan. I mean, geez, accept a gypsy, don't accept this guy?"_ Hugo demanded_. "Follow your gut, Quasi, it's never steered you wrong before. Well, ya know – except for that time with the enchiladas, __**boy**__…"_

And then LaVerne observed, _"Sometimes things don't just come in black and white, Quasi. Sometimes you have to take a chance and hope you're helpin' someone – you just have to know __**when**__ to take the chance."_

The hunchback lifted his head from his arms and stared out at the ochre patch of sky, fiery beyond the dull outline of the city.

"It hasn't even been one night yet," he reminded himself. He sighed. "Well, I'd better go show him his room. Thanks, guys."

The gargoyles returned his stare. It was almost as though they had smiled.

Quasi plodded downstairs – or at least, started to, but halfway down he nearly collided into Jehan, who had evidently been bounding up two stairs at a time.

"Oh, Quasimodo, I'm glad I found you. Capon?" he offered, brandishing a greasy chicken drumstick.

"Uh, no thanks."

"As you wish. Quasimodo, I was hoping to ask you where I am to sleep tonight?"

"There are some empty chambers in the west nave," Quasi explained. "You can stay there." He didn't mention that – well, that Judge Frollo had sometimes slept there when he had dealings with the cathedral and didn't want to return to the Palace of Justice.

"Thanks, Quasi! That sounds _perfect_. Call me when it's ready, like a good boy." He patted Quasimodo's shoulder, took a giant bite of capon, and skipped off before Quasi could say a word.

"Um, okay," Quasimodo muttered at the empty staircase.

"_Hmm. Well…"_ Hugo seemed to be doubting his decision now as Victor eyed him triumphantly. _"A little selfish, yeah, but ya gotta admit Quas, you do some mean hospital corners…_

* * *

After collecting some linens, a candlestick, and some tinder for the fireplace, Quasi made his way with the awkward bundle to the chambers in the west nave. It was really a small, almost mean room, but it was all they had to offer. If Quasimodo had cared to think about it, he would have realized its plainness was the reason Frollo hadn't stayed there very often.

Quasimodo spread the linens over the mattress and placed the candlestick on a little table that stood nearby. It looked lonesome there, as it seemed to struggle against the great dark space. "Well I'm no houskeeper, that's for sure," he mumbled as he plodded about the room, punching in cushions and dusting rugs and scraping furniture about the floor in an effort to make the place cosy. "I bet Esmeralda would know what to do here, she's always so thoughtful – "

But as he distractedly opened the door to a small antechamber, it was if he had stepped into a nightmare, for in the darkness he could suddenly _feel_ Claude Frollo's arms winding and twisting around him, could smell the musty staleness of his clerical robes, could almost hear his icy cold voice, the voice that should have been silenced long ago! With a cry of fear, Quasimodo wrenched at the arms that held him tight and stumbled backwards.

"M – _master_?" A change had come over him and put the old frightened look in his green eye.

He took up the candlestick and held it out, trembling, and then he realized with a sigh of relief he had just walked into an old robe of Frollo's that hung on a peg on the wall. He had evidently knocked it off in his struggle; it was now crumpled on the floor like a pile of rags, and with a shudder Quasimodo picked up the sumptuous velvet garment and replaced it on its hook next to the big triangular hat.

"H – how ridicoulous," he laughed uneasily. "Frollo's not there – of course he's – he can't be – he's _dead_."

Dead. Yes, Frollo had died months ago, and yet he had been such a part of Quasimodo's twenty years that he still lived on in the hunchback's memories. There, in that lonely room, it was as if he had gone back ten years in time.

"_Come along, Jehan. Now there's a good boy, a smart lad. You are meant for great things, my little brother."_

Quasimodo could see his master now, a grey blot against a golden sky as he walked along the cloister of Notre Dame, holding Jehan's hand while Quasimodo limped along behind them. _"Now Jehan, you know very well you are not to talk to Quasimodo. He is a sinner – just look at him, and you can tell – and we mustn't get in the way of his atonement, must we? Of course not. Now Jehan - __**keep up**__, Quasimodo! We don't have all day! – Jehan, as I said, you will be going to school soon, to be learned and evenminded like myself. I am certain you will do your very best, you are such a bright child."_

Jehan would often come to visit the hunchback, if only to spite his brother's wishes. Quasimodo had always wondered why Jehan would want to be so obviously disrespectful of Frollo – what Quasimodo would have given for just one of the kind glances the judge lavished on his younger brother! Once, when he was twelve and Quasimodo fourteen, Jehan had snuck up while playing hooky from school, and he had brought a bag of marbles with him which he had likely cheated from a schoolmate. He dumped them out and they clacked and snickered across the belltower floor, throwing spots of color across the room.

"_They – why, they look almost like planets, Jehan!"_

"_Maybe, but you can't play with planets, just memorize their names. Where's a piece of chalk? I'll show you how to play…" _

And they had sat there for an hour or more, gambling away marbles, with Jehan making up new rules to suit his needs since Quasimodo didn't really know how to play anyway. Just as Quasi had beaten all odds and was scooping a handsome pile of marbles into his lap, Frollo swept into the room with a Bible and a glass of wine. He took one look at the scene, and the young hunchback went white.

"_Quasimodo," _Frollo had said, in a perfectly calm voice,_ "pick up those marbles and replace them in the bag."_ Jehan had jumped up and Quasimodo, almost in tears from nervousness, quickly scooped them up, chased after the ones that rolled over to Frollo's feet, and handed the judge the leather pouch. Frollo passed it from one hand to another.

"_Quasimodo"_ he had said,_ "we must learn from our mistakes and our sins. I am really quite disapponted in you, boy – encouraging my brother to shirk his scholarly duties? Leading him down the path of waste and vice? All for a moment of pleasure?"_ Frollo never reaised his voice, and that somehow made things worse. Quasimodo folded his hands together as his master glided over to the window, turned the pouch of marbles upside down, and let them fall and scatter in the street.

Quasimodo had bit his lip as Frollo returned the empty sack. _"I want you to memorize five hundred Biblical verses by this week's end, do you understand?"_

"_Yes, master."_

"_And if I find you encouraging my brother to further sin, there shall be a greater penalty, and I do not wish you to be punished, you know, as it could be quite painful – do you understand?"_

"_Yes, master."_

"_Very well."_ Frollo lifted his eyes to the ceiling piously and placed the tips of his fingers together. _"__**Corruptio optimi pessima**__ – the corruption of the best is the worst. Come, Jehan."_

"_Don't worry, I'll get some more,"_ Jehan had whispered with a wink, though in all honesty Quasimodo would have just preferred Jehan had stood up for him. But then again, he had supposed, Jehan wouldn't want to truly disappoint his brother, and Quasi would never make Frollo proud anyway, so it was just as well he took the blame.

It was always strange to Quasimodo that, hard as he might work, he received only scoldings and punishments, and it was made worse by the fact that Frollo was not just wholly cruel – he had good in him, it was clear, but that was not reserved for Quasimodo.

And then Quasimodo remembered the time of just two years ago – Jehan had grown to be the tall, dashing lad he was now (and Quasimodo had grown more – like _he_ was now), and he could remember how Jehan was just as careless and carefree as he'd been as a child.

"_Brother, I don't __**care**__ what you say!"_

"_You don't know what is best for you, Jehan – that is for me to decide. Oh, why do you torture me?"_

"_I'm not torturing you and you know it, Claude. You act like you're a martyr when all you try to do is cage me and keep me from having fun! And I'm sick of it!"_

Quasimodo could hear their voices echoing through the empty hall of the cathedral. And he couldn't help but think to himself, _"I know how you feel, Jehan."_

"_But Jehan…"_ Frollo's voice was almost wheedling in its manipulative tone, _"you do not know this world and that you are better, far better, than those vagabonds you consort with. They are ignoreant. Diseased in body, mind, and soul – "_

"_So, you won't listen to me at all? You won't give me any money, then?"_

"_I said I would not, and I am no liar."_

By this point, Quasimodo had stealthily crept in and peered out of a dark doorway at the cence – the two tall, thin, sharp brothers, one pale grey and violet, the other pale yellow and scarlet, staring at one another and both refusing to yield.

"_Then I'll go."_

"_Go where?"_ demanded the judge.

"_Go anywhere, anywhere but here! I'll make my own way in the world." He seemed bratty and spoiled, but Quasimodo could tell he was serious. "You always said to avoid Hell, didn't you? Well this is it!"_

Quasimodo had gasped, and as Frollo stood there rigidly, Jehan stalked from the catehdral. Frollo muttered what could have been either a prayer of Jehan's salvation or a curse, and Quasimodo had darted away to be in his room for when Frollo came to punish him in place of Jehan.

And for two years, that was the last that was seen of Monsieur Jehan Frollo.

Quasimodo jumped as a drip of wax from the candle stung his hand, and he was instantly back in the present. "Jehan is a good person," he decided. "It's not his fault he's spoiled, but he's always been kind to me." At least, he thought so.

"Quasimodo!"

The hunchback turned and was shocked to meet Phoebus' face. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked, rather sharply.

"Heh, that seems to be the Question of the Day," Phoebus said. "I'm the new guard to the cathedral."

"We don't need a gua – "

"Shh, do you want me to be fired?" Phoebus grinned. "Anyway, I heard you shout, and I came to see if you needed any help. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Quasimodo returned, his face reddening. "Thanks anyway."

"No need to thank me, it's my job." The joke wasn't all _that_ funny, but Phoebus thought it was, and chuckled all the way back to the altar. Quasimodo shook his head. Try as he might, he never could completely warm to Phoebus – they were just too different. But he did _try._

"I better go find Jehan," Quasimodo decided. So that's exactly what he went to do.

* * *

The cathedral had gotten dark quickly, and with the floral pattern of the rose window, the strange shadows and the soaring pillars and stonework, it was almost like being in a forest at night. It reminded Jehan of his time traveling throughout the countryside, which he did in the summer when he wanted a change from the city. It really was wonderful, freedom. Jehan loved being able to go where he liked, when he pleased, with whoever (particularly if "whoever" meant two or three pretty girls). Unfortunately, Jehan had been pretty lazy in math in his youth and didn't really calculate that a bag of silver will only get you so far, after which point you'll need to beg when you can or charm your way into a few coins if you're lucky. In fact, he'd not only been down on his luck, he'd been actually _poor_ until a few months ago, when he first heard the news about his brother.

Of course he was sad about it. After all, it _was_ his brother, the only family he'd had. But he and his brother were never friends, and as Jehan saw it, there was nothing anyone could do – it was God's will, after all.

But something that really interested Jehan was the fact that his brother's life savings would have to go somewhere. Frollo had had no friends in life, and certainly no other family (even Jehan knew Quasimodo didn't count), "So it can only go to two places – me, or Notre Dame." He knew Frollow would prefer to go down in history as a great benefactor of the cathedral, as public importance meant a lot to him. "But if _I_ claim it – I'll be living easy for the rest of my life!"

So Jehan had returned. He had hoped to get something out of the Archdeacon – the only problem was that _they_ weren't friends either, since the Archdeacon disliked him for some reason. That was a dead end. Jehan figured he cout try Quasimodo, though, who was so softhearted he would easily spill all he knew. "_If _he doesn't know I'm after the fortune. I'll have to make him think we're friends, I guess. Well we _are_…I just have to remind him _I _was his friend and not Notre Dame."

Jehan paced back and forth, red against the blue light, and he jumped as he saw a black shape scuttle into his path. "_Sacre bleu_!" he swore, and then relaxed as he recognized the angular, crouching figure of Sister Gudlue, whom he'd known since a boy.

"Hello there, Sister!" he called. La Gudule shaded his eyes.

"Frollo's brother," she stated. "You had a good brother, lad. One of the saviors of Paris."

"Um, perhaps so…"

"Indeed," the nun cooed. "To leave so much money to the church!"

Jehan paused. "Not yet?"

"No, no, but it is meant for the church." The nun looked up and all around her, fondly, as though the cathedral itself were the child she had lost and she had given it all the love she'd ever possessed. But then her face darkened. "Yet – money may be fine, but it is soon spent and lost. I am not sure anything – even the efforts of Claude Frollo, could save this house of God from the evil that threatens and surrounds it."

She was clasping Jehan's slender arm with her bony hand and, disgusted, Jehan was about to pluck it off when a thought came to him like a flash. _Sister Gudule loves Notre Dame more than anything in the world,_ he thought rapidly. _And I love fortune and freedom still more – _

And like that a plan came to him, a way for him, through the hatred of Sister Gudule, to claim his brother's fortune.

"I agree with you very much, Sister Gudule," he told her, nodding in sympathy. "Notre Dame, our dear Notre Dame, is the only thing that has saved me from my worldly ways and I owe it all I can offer."

"God bless you!"

"I hope he does. But you speak of evil – I've been away for awhile, and don't know what you mean." He cocked his head, the picture of concern.

Sister Gudule shook her own head, sharp wimple flapping. "Yes, yes. Judge Frollo was too merciful for his own good, but to bring that demon-child Quasimodo into _this_ holy place? A mistake of the devil. That…thing crouches up there all day, like a beast, tempting others to sin with his strange heretic ideas!"

So clealy she didn't like Quasimodo. Jehan considered this.

"What else? As if the bellringer weren't enough?"

"You have to ask?" The nun sneered. "Gypsies! Gypsies all about the streets, all about the city!" Her voice could not be fuller of undisguised hatred. "And now a gypsy she-devil is _friends_ with that monster! She even owns a little goat, a familiar! And s he dares to place a foot in this sanctuary? It makes my very soul cold. It is as unnatural as they are."

By this point, though, Jehan had ceased to listen – he was _thinking_, and that, my friend, was a dangerous thing.

"Sister Gudule," he said, at last, "How much do you care for this church?"

"I would sell my soul were it to save Notre Dame, monsieur."

"And how much do you hate its enemies?"

"As much as I love the cathedral."

"Well then, sister, I feel I have a plan to preserve the glory of Notre Dame."

At the nun's intrigued glance, Jehan smiled.

It looked exactly like the smile of his brother.


	7. One Eye for Another

_Wow, forever since the last chapter! Eep! BUT this one is a nice long chapter, so hopefully you'll enjoy it. BTW, Belznik is supposed to be the small boy that ran away when Esmeralda and the gypsies were chased away from the corner by Frollo's guards at the beginning of the movie. ;) Hope you enjoy and PLEASE REVIEW! I want to be inspired for the upcoming chapter, you know._

**Chapter 6**

**One Eye for Another**

"_Come on_, Clopin."

"My dear, what you ask is impossible."

"But be reasonable! How often does a FRENCHMAN want to become a gypsy?"

The plaza was golden in the early morning sunlight, striped over with the slender, elongated shadows of Esmeralda and the Gypsy King. As far as the actual arrangement went, Esmeralda was defiant, arms crossed in exasperation, and Clopin was stubbornly regal. He looked down his nose at her, which unfortunately for him was more comical than threatening. "What can _he_ - that poet-scoundrel – possibly do to benefit our people, anyway? Riddle me that, La Esmeralda?" Before she could respond, Clopin went on, "I simply do not trust this fellow. You and I and Clopinet – "

"_Here!"_

" –know he came to us as a villain – "

"But WE'RE THIEVES, Clopin!"

At this point, the Gypsy King frowned darkly. "You are very fiery today, Esmeralda," he retorted.

Esmeralda sighed and tried to speak firmly but calmly (the man was so difficult!). "Clopin, please, listen. I admit, it's very strange for someone like Gringoire to _want_ to live like us, on the run, never knowing what's going to come next, always hoping for a laugh just to put bread on the table – but who are we to judge him for that? And I think he's ready for it – what do we have to lose?"

Clopin crossed his arms and regarded her calmly, for he was one of the few men immune to Esmeralda's smoldering glare. "I think_ I_ shall be the judge of that."

* * *

Gringoire was lurking outside the entrance to the Court of Miracles, his cape draped over one arm. He was really straining his ears to try to eavesdrop but as soon as he saw Esmeralda he straightened up properly with an air of nonchalence. "Well?" he inquired, trying to keep his voice from sounding too anxious, "am I in?"

"No," muttered Esmeralda as she yanked a stolen loaf of bread out of her sleeve and tossed it over to Gringoire. "Clopin doesn't trust you. He is so stubborn sometimes!"

Gringoire munched on his bread in his best behavior and considered this. "This is exceedingly unfortunate."

"Mm, it certainly is," Esmeralda sighed, sitting down and leaning against catacomb doorway. It wasn't that she disliked Gringoire or really wanted him gone (even though he _was_ rather condescending), but she didn't want him to be forced to hang around the Court of Miracles for a paltry offense. It just wasn't right. _He_ _should either be treated like one of us or granted his freedom,_ she thought obstinately.

And she also knew that Clopin would have way too much fun driving her crazy over the fiancé bargain she had made, besides – she could imagine him now. _"Esmeralda? Aren't you forgetting about your beloved poet-scoundrel cheese-eater? Naughty little wife…"_ Blah. She frowned at Djali at the mere thought.

"Oh, and by the way," Gringoire added suddenly, with a last gulp of his small meal, "I meant to tell you that you are very talented! You probably_ know_ that, hehe," he grinned, "but I was still surprised. I always heard gypsies were heathens you know, but that was positively…classical? Otherworldly? No, nymphlike." He seemed extremely pleased with this word. "Yeah, I'll have to remember that term, nymphlike." He looked around absently for a pen but found none considering he was sitting on the ground in the middle of a graveyard.

Esmeralda just blinked. "Thank you."

"It's true," Gringoire motioned Djali over and scratched him under the chin. "I am sure you won't believe me, but…" he began, with a sideways look.

"Try me."

"Well, I think that the "Life Boheme" – " he made some artistic gesture with his arm, "suits me better than the life of a gentleman or a that of a wretched scholar. I'd really like to learn more about 'your kind of people'," he added, in what Esmeralda guessed was an attempt at tact.

"What, like an experiment?" she asked dryly. "So you can amuse yourself?"

He had been wearing a very eager grin but now it faded a bit. "No, no! So I can _learn._"

Esmeralda bit her lip. She had to admit, even Phoebus had never shown this much interest in the gypsy way – he had accepted it, of course, but only as a thing distant and unrelated to him. "Why would I care if you were a gypsy?" he often chuckled, his arm around her. But sometimes she wished he _would_ care.

The truth was, Esmeralda didn't know what to make of this and she didn't know what to say, which she was not used to.

"Well," she managed, at last, "I suppose – I can show you, if you really want to see what it's like."

"Excellent!" Gringoire leapt to his feet, full of enthusiasm, and clapped his hands together. "I want to see all your haunts, and meet some of your people, and learn to play an exotic musical instrument, and I would like to see you rob someone blind and dance under the full moon, and if I am inspired I m_ay very well _compose a poem in honor of my experience!"

Esmeralda laughed. "Well, I'm not sure if we're much like the stories you've heard, but I'll do my best. Come on Djali, we need to show Gringoire the sights!"

It was a winding way through several back alleys to get to the heart of the city, where the real action was. Esmeralda was familiar with each dripping corridor, but poor Gringoire hadn't gotten the memo that there was a field of puddles in the way of every step. And rats – big ones – besides.

"Our highway," Esmeralda remarked, surveying him humorously as he picked his way along.

"Oh!" he gulped, with an attempt at a polite smile. "How…primitive. And you don't wear shoes – oh holy Mother Mary look at the size of that thing!" He jumped about a foot high, dashed behind Esmeralda, and pointed in horror at a rat nearly the size of Djali.

"I thought you were a traveler, Gringoire - haven't you ever seen the rats before?" Esmeralda teased.

"No!"

"Well get used to it. We call that one Jaq. Follow me." And so Gringoire splashed through the puddles until he was out in the open again. _How do they keep their clothes so bright? Why aren't they miserable all the time? _he wondered in dismay.

When they made it to the square, they were confronted by bright sunlight and a barrage of early morning shoppers. Gringoire seemed stunned that they were glaring at him.  
"Are they upset because I'm so dirty? I mean look at them…well you sir have a face only a mother could love!" he shouted at one passerby, indignantly.

"Shut up, stupid. Are you kidding me? They think you're a gypsy."

"Oh." Gringoire looked down at himself, then into each face once more. "And they think that's a crime? That's…very hurtful."

"Yeah. It is." That was all Esmeralda had to say. She remembered the scene with the madwoman nun from the day before, and how Gringoire had just stood there. _I guess he thinks he's lived life with all his travelling, but he's so used to having his head in the clouds, living in a fantasy world. He only sees the romance – not what it's really like._

Suddenly she was distracted by a loud shout and a flash of bright color as someone darted past her and nearly knocked Gringoire to the ground.

"COME BACK HERE, you dogs! You thieves, how dare you?"

Gringoire, without knowing what was going on, suddenly felt himself being pulled sharply into a sideroad and realized Esmeralda was trying to hide them from the fight. A scrawny boy the color of clay and Gringoire's red-bearded gypsy friend from the day before darted past, the boy ducking around a cabbage cart and the man clutching tightly to a burlap sack as they ran. "Belznik and Pierro," Esmeralda murmured, but before Gringoire could ask what she meant, a man in a greasy apron appeared. "Stop! That's my money!" he gasped, evidently worn out from his running. He doubled over, hands on his knees, and glowered down the street. But the two gypsies were long gone. He soon muttered a curse and left.

Esmeralda peered around the corner – "The coast's clear" – then looked down the alley and gave a sharp whistle. After a moment, Gringoire heard an identical whistle echo in the distance.

"Come on," she insisted, dragging him along by the wrist, "that was Belznik and Pierro – I think Pierro was hurt." Gringoire nodded and followed the gypsy girl and her pet goat silently down the road.

Gypsies, you know, are experts at fortune-telling; Gringoire himself found this to be quite true for, just as Esmeralda had predicted they found the gypsies in yet another stinking alley, and the red-bearded man was nursing a large red gash on his wrist. "Esmeralda!" he called in relief, but then he winced in pain and grit his teeth.

"Belznik, what happened?" Esmeralda demanded of the scrawny boy as she rushed to Pierro's side.

"The miller was trying to say we stole from 'im – and we didn't! And someone threw a bottle at Pierro and cut 'im bad. We got lots of gold for our playing today, though," he added, shaking the burlap sack greedily and pocketing a small flute. Esmeralda shook her head.

"Wait, you mean you didn't steal that money?" Gringoire asked. "Not that it matters, of course," he added quickly, "although I don't know why that man would claim otherwise…"

"What, you think we're all just lazy French bums like you – ow!" Pierro groaned.

"Shut up Pierro, and let me look at this." Esmeralda took up his arm. "You're really bleeding a lot – "

But the man went on. "Of course we didn't steal! Your kind like to blame us for all their problems – even if we don't cause them."

Gringoire had a very witty retort on the tip of his tongue but he saw Esmeralda gasp almost imperceptibly as she drew back her hand, covered in blood. "We need to stitch this up," she murmured, a little dazed.

"But we need to stop the bleeding first." Gringoire ripped off a strip of his shirt and started to tie off the wound. "Or else plague can get in, you know."

Pierro started to yank his arm away.

"I just want to help you – and, I'm sorry." Gringoire knotted off the bandage and helped Pierro to his feet.

"What're you sorry for?" Pierro retorted, suspicious.

"Yeah, what?" Belznik repeated in what was probably the most annoying voice known to man. "For stealing my lunch?"

"For taking what didn't belong to me," Gringoire conceded, "and, well, for today. For that man's behavior. I'm just – really sorry." Poetic Pierre Gringoire never liked to be without a well-prepared speech, but he didn't really have a choice – he hadn't expected the gypsies to be so loyal, to behave like such a big large beautiful family.

And he wanted to be part of it.

Esmeralda, in the meantime, had been darting her eyes from the pock-marked, rusty face of Pierro to the half-shaven, rather vapid expression of Gringoire. She looked at Djali as if to say "Well I guess today wasn't a waste after all, huh?" Aloud she said, "So we're all friends? Great. Now we need to get you home, Pierro. C'mon Belznik."

When the four of them entered the Court of Miracles Clopin was in the middle of his lunch and when a Gypsy King is interrupted in his dining – well, it is no pretty picture!

"What is the meaning of this?" Clopin leapt up, full of bluster, and Clopinet would have echoed him except that where Clopinet usually was there was only a greasy hand with some breadcrumbs stuck to it.

Noticing this, Clopin turned his back, pulled something out of his pocket, and a moment later Clopinet appeared, formidably.

"Pierro, did the Poet do this to you?" Clopin pointed at the gypsy man's arm with a frown that was utterly lacking in humor.

"No, King Clopin," Pierro stated. "In fact, he helped to stop the bleeding."

"But I'll bet another of those Frenchies did it then, eh? Stuck him with a steak knife? Or fork? Threw a hammer?"

"A bottle, actually," Belznik said helpfully.

Clopin waved his arm dismissively. "All the same."

"Well, no. Then – this – Gringoire," Pierro said, "he apologized."

"How quaint…."

Clopin then looked at Esmeralda. "What are you staring at, La Esmeralda?"

"Nothing, really. Just trying to figure you out."

Clopin frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Well," Esmeralda responded evenly, "you see, I can't tell about you. I mean, you don't really seem _jealous _of Gringoire, but then, you also want to save face since you were going to hang a nice guy, and I guess you're a little confused…" She looked him square in his beady eye. "Since, you know, you're acting like the Frenchmen act toward us. Intolerant. Unjust."

Well of course _that_ did not go over well. Clopin literally staggered back in horror. He placed his hand melodramatically on his heart. "ME? Unjust? Never! Perish the thought, La Esmeralda!"

"Well make me a gypsy then!" Gringoire said boldly.

All the gypsies looked at him at once, including Esmeralda. Clopin grimaced.

"I'm supposed to "marry" Esmeralda eventually, right, so I'd be a gypsy then – why not _make_ me one? You're better than the French anyway – kinder, more loyal, adventurous and bohemian! Just the way I've always wanted to be!"

For all his bravado and self-importance Clopin was, of course, basically a kind person and really, he had been bested here. He stroked his mangy beard for a moment, righted his hat, coughed a few times and, at last, appeared to consult Clopinet (who, it is said, always gave excellent advice). At last, he turned to the poet, who met him with eager eyes.

"_Why_," he asked, cocking his head and surveying Gringoire carefully, "do you _choose_ to make an outcast of yourself? After all, you are a Parisian born and bred, you are obviously learned, you would be accepted easily in a better trade and sphere, and yet you refuse all this?"

Gringoire considered this for a moment. "True," he said. "I do refuse. But is it a true choice? I ask you. Is it my choice that that rigid world holds no light or promise for me, that the "rabble" proves grander and more alive and embracing? Is it my fault I am an outcast from that world, do I do it to myself? Or do my stars say otherwise?"

I must admit that Clopin had not expected such an elegant response, and was rather floored by its meaning. The fact that Esmeralda was smugly examining her fingernails didn't help matters. So assuming an air of indifference (his own mask), Clopin stroked his mangy beard carelessly.

"Ah, perhaps there is more than meets the eye with you, poet-scoundrel. BUT! You do not get adopted into the Court without first performing a few miracles – proving your worth, you know."

"Oh," said Gringoire, a little dismayed.

"I can see you already have a good sense of the dramatic," Clopin stated, flatly.

Esmeralda felt it would be a good place to jump in. "You're right, Clopin," she said with a confident smile. "Gringoire has a lot of talent. He can act, and tell tales, and…" Well, she had to admit, that wasn't much.

"And I can juggle up to three items – AT ONE TIME!" Gringoire added, clearly impressed with himself.

"Ah," Clopin said. "How nice."

"_Nice,"_ said Clopinet.

"Well, we'll find something for him to do," Esmeralda returned. "What matters is you're one of us now, Gringoire."

"We shall have to initiate you," Clopin agreed, rather craftily.

"And teach you how to play the lute!" said Belznik, overly excited now that everyone else seemed excited.

"And read your fortune!" cried an old woman from the crowd.

"I guess I can show you around the city," muttered Pierro. "Well, when my arm gets better."

"Well I say three cheers for Gringoire!" Esmeralda exclaimed happily, and the gypsies cheered accordingly. Gringoire just smiled.

* * *

The first order of business was to make Gringoire a suit of performance clothes. Clopin decided red and yellow would clash with Gringoire's looks so, since Clopin was a contrary soul, he ordered the clothes in those colors. Gringoire himself liked it though, since the suit divided him evenly down the middle and jangled joyfully and mystically when he walked.

Then it was time to show Gringoire around the city – this time without interruption. Before long, Gringoire knew all the gypsy hideouts, much of the lore, many of their secrets. Gypsies are willing – sometimes too willing – to share with those they believe have joined their orders.

"See, what were you afraid of?" Esmeralda asked Clopin triumphantly about a week later. They stood apart, watching as Gringoire engaged in a mock swordfight with the kids. "You liked Phoebus, and soon you'll like him too."

"Ah, but Phoebus is our kind of a man – he is a rogue to be sure! He just doesn't care to admit it. This Gringoire, on the other hand – why, he _professes_ himself to be a rogue. Those are the sort you must watch out for."

But Esmeralda didn't reply. She knew he just wanted to have the last word and, heck, she was in a generous mood today.

* * *

Phoebus was bored to death.

"I knew I was right," he muttered sourly to Achilles, who was the only real company he'd had since he'd started this stupid job. "Who _needs _to_ guard_ a _church_? Nothing ever happens."

He_ had_ only been working at this job for a week, it was true, but then Phoebus was a man of _action_. Sometimes he just felt like conquering an enemy or fighting a bloody battle or even just swaggering about in his armor and bossing troops around. Nowadays he was lucky if he sighted Quasimodo up in the belltower and got an awkward wave in return. At least it was better than having to jump out of the way of the parishioners, who generally just ignored him.

So yeah, Phoebus was bored.

"Ya know Achilles," he grumbled, "When I was in Asia Minor – hey listen, this is a funny story – "

But he stopped because, in the distance, he saw the bright purple silk of Esmeralda's skirts among the drab crowd, and he immediately jumped up and flagged her down desperately. "I'm as eager as Quasimodo," he sighed, and then cupped his hands over his mouth and called the gypsy's name at the top of his lungs.

Esmeralda turned for a moment and started to wave, but another face appeared at her side and caught her attention instead.

It was the man with the purple cape – the poet from last week.

"So – I thought Clopin killed that guy." Phoebus scratched his head. He had to admit, he hadn't really been listening to Esmeralda's explanation that day, exactly, so much as eyeing her over. "What was his stupid name? Gringo – Greasebag? Uh…"

"Gringoire, of course."

Phoebus whirled around at the strange voice and came face-to-face with Sister Gudule, the madwoman nun.

"Oh, Sister Gudule," Phoebus nodded respectfully, releasing his grasp on the hilt of his sword. "Ahem. Well, what brings you out on this fine day?"

"Sin, retribution, and disgust with the world."

"Ah." Phoebus cleared his throat. "Uh, how charming."

"I suppose you are feeling rather lonesome of late, aren't you, Captain Phoebus?" the woman pursued. She looked so like a bat, Phoebus had to keep from staring.

"Well, maybe it's good for me," Phoebus tried to grin. "Gives me time to think."

"Yes, that's very good. Reflection is a virtue. Though I think you are at a loss without the gypsy girl?"

Phoebus knew he was, but there was something in the nun's wily stare that made him distinctly uneasy. "Her _name _is Esmeralda."

"Hmm. Yes. Well it seems the little _heathen _has found herself another fool to bewitch – " and she devoured Gringoire, in the crowd, with her tiny eyes. "Has she not, Captain Phoebus?"

"Sister Gudule, that is enough!" Phoebus stated, sharply. "I am surprised you would be so – unforgiving – and in the shadow of Notre Dame, no less!"

The nun frowned under her jagged wimple. "Or perhaps _you_ are _too_ forgiving, Captain."

What else was there to say? Phoebus, face burning, could only watch in silence as the old woman slowly crept away, like a small black spider, back to her convent.

_I….I know Esmeralda is mine_, Phoebus assured himself, as he fidgeted with his helmet. And yet a small voice in his head asked, _But then…does Esmeralda really belong to anyone?_

He looked into the crowd once more, and saw neither Esmeralda nor her friend the poet. And for one of the very few times in his life, the brilliant Captain Phoebus de Martin began to doubt his own judgment.


	8. Puppets and Strings

**Chapter 7**

**Puppets and Strings**

"_Sacre bleu!"_

CRASH. SPLAT. _BOING!_

Perhaps it is best to be discreet in describing the Gypsy King's exasperation with his new pupil – we will simply say that he raked his long fingers through his dark lank hair, gnashed his teeth, and muttered a number of the most offensive and sacrilegious curses as he towed Gringoire out from beneath a chair, a spring, a pie, and several bells.

It was quickly deduced that balancing things was not Gringoire's forte.

"I _think_," said Gringoire, completely unphased by Clopin's murderous looks, "I _think_ that if we were to balance the _chair_ on the _spring_, and put the pie on top of the _chair_ (instead of the spring, like last time, you know), that I could balance the entire set on my forehead much easier." He stepped back and examined the wreckage, then turned inquisitively toward Clopin. "Don't you agree?"

What Clopin said will not be recorded here, but it was enough that even Clopinet did not echo it, and it made Gringoire blink several times in astonishment. "Oh. Very well, then."

Unfortunately for Clopin, he was beginning to realize that the novelty and excitement surrounding Gringoire's adoption into the gypsy band was very fleeting. Yes, the poet-scoundrel _had_ given a very persuasive oration, but…after a week of living among the gypsies, it was becoming evident that he couldn't actually _do_ much of anything, and his words had been rather deceptive.

Ah, Clopin had tried everything in an attempt to uncover Gringoire's talents. He had started out with puppets. After five minutes every single marionette in the troupe's possession was a jumble of knotted strings (and some of 'em _still_ weren't untangled).

Then he had tried fortune telling. Old Mother Roma had sat down with Gringoire eagerly beside her, all her tarot cards spread out before her. But somehow, no matter how Gringoire shuffled the deck, he kept giving everyone the Death card. "Maybe there's going to be a plague," he suggested, with a shrug, then went off to write a dirge for the occasion.

A few days later the gypsies woke up to the most terrible sound – as if a hundred cats had all caught a stomachache at once. After rushing out of their tents, hands crammed over their ears, they realized it was only Gringoire with his lute. Belznik promptly snatched it away and marched back to bed.

They had tried juggling. Singing. Tumbling. Gringoire could do none of these! So Clopin really was at his wits' end. He took off his purple hat and smoothed the wrinkles out of his forehead. "Poet-scoundrel," he asked, "are you _certain_ you want to be a gypsy?"

"Oh, of course!"

"Of course." Clopin sighed, and then he walked away. He just walked away.

Gringoire shrugged, and whistling the tune he was supposed to play on his lute, he started to clean up the mess his balancing act had caused.

"Need some help?" Gringoire turned and saw the smiling face of Esmeralda. She picked up the empty, sticky pie tin and passed it to him. "I'm guessing balancing is _not_ your hidden gift, right?"

"Right," Gringoire chuckled. "And, uh – how are your feet?" A few days ago, Esmeralda had tried to give Gringoire dancing lessons, and had ended up with all her toes black and blue. "They're fine," she lied, with a quick look at Djali. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask you where you've been going so late at night. I noticed you creeping into your tent really early the last few mornings."

Gringoire reddened. "Oh. Um, well – I've been practicing my different tasks. You know – juggling, lute and all."

Wow. He'd been _practicing_ and he was this inept? No wonder he looked so sheepish now, Esmeralda thought. "Oh. Well, you know what they say – practice makes perfect."

"Yeah, that's what they say. I better be cleaning up, though; you don't need to help. Go on with your bohemian adventure!"

With a laugh, Esmeralda snapped her fingers for Djali, and together they trekked their way (with Esmeralda slightly limping, in all honesty) out of the Court and into the city.

"You know, Djali, we haven't been to see Phoebus in a while. What is it now? Ten days?" She didn't know why she felt the need to confess. But she glanced sideways at the goat, who merely glanced back. "Well, I'm sure he's been really busy lately, anyway. Yeah, see? There he is on patrol. Let's go surprise him." Putting a finger to her lips – _silence_ – Esmeralda and Djali skirted the edge of the town square, hidden behind the carts of peddlers and within the milling crowd. Light as a feather, as though she truly was dancing on air, Esmeralda tiptoed up behind Phoebus as he marched along in front of the cathedral doors. She waited for him to officially pivot, and then cried "Arrest me, officer!" with a burst of mischievous laughter.

Phoebus didn't even crack a smile. "Oh, Esmeralda, it's you."

"Of course it's me," Esmeralda answered, perhaps a little disappointed. "Who else would bother you at work, right?"

"I should've known."

"Yeah." Esmeralda folded her arms across her chest. "So, have you been really busy?"

"Yeah." Phoebus marched on in silence for a few moments, and Esmeralda stood there in silence.

Esmeralda's silence, however, is simply the calm before a storm.

"What's_ your_ problem?" she asked sharply, as Phoebus turned and met her eyes again.

"Oh, I don't have a problem." He brushed right past her as he continued patrolling. The gypsy girl scowled. "Like you said – I've been really busy, is all."

"You know, you look like a big, tough…wind-up toy," Esmeralda retorted. _That_ got him to stop – in fact, he whirled to look her straight in the face, his night-colored cape sweeping out behind him.

"What's _my_ problem?" he barked. "What do you think gives _you_ the right to march up here and romance me whenever you want, Esmeralda?" he demanded. "I have a _job_ here, you know."

"Of course I know that, you idiot," Esmeralda snapped. "And so yeah, you're mad because I haven't seen you in the past few days? You're so busy I wouldn't think you'd mind," she added.

"Oh, you're all upset when I'm going to Asia Minor," Phoebus muttered bitterly. "Sure, and I believed that. All upset that you'll have PLENTY of time to spend on that scrawny excuse-for-a-man Gringoire."

La Gudule, the madwoman, had been right. For the past few days, Phoebus had been thinking it over, and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, it was true – after all they'd been through, Esmeralda had just tossed him aside for a new puppet. But he was Captain Phoebus de Martin, and he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Esmeralda sighed in exasperation, and half-trotted behind him as he marched. "PHOEBUS. Are you kidding me?" She tried to grab his arm but he pulled away roughly. Still, she continued, "Gringoire – he's, he's like a brother to me. I mean, he already told me he didn't have any feelings for me – "

"Come _on_, Esmeralda." Phoebus rolled his eyes. "Yeah, so that's the normal reaction to 'La Esmeralda'? A brotherly love? You and I both know that's _crazy_. Heck, even Quasimodo still has feelings for you – " Phoebus stopped quickly, and ran his hand over his face. "I shouldn't have said that."

But of course Esmeralda already knew the truth. "You don't have to remind me."

Phoebus groaned. Why did he sound so immature? "Look, Esmeralda, I _have _my pride. I'm a member of the royal guard, a captain no less, and I don't really feel like being embarrassed and made a fool by a gy– "

He stopped as soon as the word came to his lips, but it was too late. Esmeralda narrowed her eyes, and they glinted like broken glass as she finished, harshly, "By a gypsy girl."

"Wait, Esmeralda, please! I didn't mean that!" Phoebus protested; he went to grab her arm as she ran away, but suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his shin as Djali butted his legs with all his might. "Aw, come ON – " he growled, automatically stumbling and checking the damage.

When he looked up, she was gone.

And for one of the very few times in his life, the brilliant Captain Phoebus de Martin _knew – _knew, without a doubt – that his judgment had been wrong.

* * *

smeralda had not cried once in the months of terror, the times she had met Quasimodo and felt such _pity_ and indignation – the times she was trapped within the cathedral – when her people were tortured and abused by Judge Claude Frollo, who would have in turn tortured and abused _her_ alone – and she wasn't going to start now. But it was so very _hard_ to keep the rebellious tears from spilling over her cheeks as she ducked alongside the shadows of Notre Dame. She looked up to see the familiar row of stone saints staring down at her – and when she tilted her head back, up into the ornate and fearsome eaves of the cathedral, she saw among the gargoyles the face of Quasimodo staring down at her, evidently with concern.

"Esmeralda?" he called, as softly as he could while yet still being heard. "Are you all right? Are – you in trouble?"

Esmeralda blinked roughly to force the tears aside. "Hey, uh, Quasi, I'm kind of having a rough day – I got mad at Phoebus," she added, slowly.

The hunchback gave an ambiguous, "Oh."

"Can you help me up, so we can talk?"

"Of course! Just give me a minute – " but within a few seconds he had already bounded (in a confused mixture of grace and clumsiness) down the cathedral side.

"Here," he stuttered, "you just put your arm here – or around my neck – or uh – "  
While Esmeralda waited for Quasimodo to decide on the most proper and polite arrangement, she wrapped both arms around his neck. "Just pick me up." And so he did, looking as much like a predator with his prey as possible, at least to anyone who did not know him.  
It was easy for Esmeralda to forget how _free_ she felt on the rooftops of Notre Dame, without the specter of Claude Frollo looming dangerously over the cathedral. It was as though she could even breathe more easily.

She turned back to Quasimodo, who was trying (unsuccessfully) to be unobtrusive and nonchalant.

"Are – you all right?" he asked, hesitantly.

"I am," she said.

Quasimodo nodded, thoughtful. "That's good."

To be honest, he wanted very much to know what Phoebus had done to her to hurt streetwise Esmeralda so deeply. Because although he tolerated Phoebus for Esmeralda's sake, and admired his bravery, he still sometimes felt deep within his heart that Phoebus could be very – _un_kind, if he wanted. And Quasimodo didn't think it would take very much to make him dislike Phoebus a great deal. _But maybe it's just…because I'm jealous._

Still, how could he help Esmeralda if he didn't know what to do? He glanced surreptitiously in the direction of Victor, Hugo, and LaVerne, who looked back encouragingly.

"So, uh…Phoebus?" he prompted.

Esmeralda buried her beautiful face in her hands, and for a moment Quasimodo had the horrible suspicion she might be _crying_, and he hadn't the slightest idea how to remedy _that_, of course how _could_ he, after all he'd never seen a _girl_ CRY before…

But fortunately Esmeralda was only venting frustration, not grief. "It's so _stupid_," she groaned.

"I'm sure it's not," Quasimodo ventured, though of course he hadn't the slightest idea.

"But it is." Esmeralda tousled her jumbled curls. "Do you remember the poet I told you about – the one Clopin adopted into the troupe?"

Well, he actually _didn't_ know the poet had been accepted. Esmeralda hadn't been to see him in that time. But he only said, sitting down beside her, "Yes, I remember."

"Right. Well, because it was my idea to convince Clopin to keep him, it was also my responsibility to show him around, how to be one of us."

"Of course."

"SEE?" Esmeralda exclaimed. "_You_ understand that." (Quasimodo tried very hard not to look obviously pleased.) "But Phoebus thought I was being unfaithful to him. And he wouldn't listen when I tried to explain. I just don't know what got into him."

Quasimodo nodded. He knew Phoebus was being unjust. "I know how much you care for him, Esmeralda – anybody could see that," he said. No one knew that better than he did, and if – if Phoebus couldn't appreciate it – well then, he was an utter_ fool_. Actually, the thought alone made Quasimodo angry enough to suggest, "You know, if you need any help – I mean, if you'd like _me_ to explain to Phoebus –" He was strong enough to take on Phoebus. If he needed to, of course; he hadn't been ringing bells for fifteen years for nothing.

But Esmeralda shook her head. "No, Quasi. Thank you – " she laid her hand on his. "I'm not even angry, really. I mean, I _was_, but – " She sighed. "I guess I just thought he knew me better than that. Guess I was wrong."

Quasimodo had essentially exhausted his comforting abilities, and could think of no words of reassurance - _And when she needs me, too!_, he chided himself – so he just sat beside her, silently.

"I will say, though," Esmeralda remarked at last, "I _have_ been pretty selfish with you, lately."

"No you haven't."

"Yes, I have, but I can't neglect my old friends for my new ones." She smoothed out her skirt and put on a cheerful expression. "So, what have you been doing lately?"

_Mostly just helping Jehan_, Quasimodo thought, a little sourly (which he knew was unfair), but he said, "Not much, really. There are a lot of preparations for Michaelmas. And," he realized, "I suppose my birthday is coming up soon."

"Wow, really?"

"Yes. On the 15th. I guess I'll be twenty one."

"Well you need to have a party!" Esmeralda declared.

"Maybe. I never thought about it, since I've never had one. I almost forgot it entirely."

Esmeralda felt a little embarrassed – she should have known better. "Oh. Well, I never really think about mine either. I never knew my parents, and with the gypsies every day's a party."

Quasimodo felt it would be best to change the subject to something more interesting than himself. "So, you've been helping the poet?

"Yes – I tried to teach him to dance, but I didn't really succeed. See, I didn't know it was a suicide mission." She showed him her bruised feet.

"Oh no!" Quasi exclaimed, sincerely, but Esmeralda just chuckled wryly. "Yeah. I have to say, he's a good fellow, but Gringoire's not good for much – "

"WAIT." Quasimodo turned sharply, a strange look on his face. It was so unexpected, so _unusual_ to see on her dear friend, that Esmeralda was concerned. "What is it?" she asked, seriously. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, well," Quasimodo swallowed, embarrassed by his outburst but still visibly upset. "Did you say Gringoire was the poet's name?"

"Yeah…his last name."

"Is his first name…Pierre?" he asked, carefully.

"Yeah, it is. Quasimodo, what's wrong? Do you know him?" If he really did know him Esmeralda could not imagine why her friend would be so troubled by dreamy, sensitive Gringoire.

"Yes, I do – or, at least, I did." He furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure how to tell you this, Esmeralda, but the Pierre Gringoire _I_ know…was a devoted student of my master – of Frollo."

Quasimodo couldn't bear to tell Esmeralda that terrible truth, but she trusted the poet. _And what if he wants to hurt the gypsies – and her?_ he worried. He watched as Esmeralda's eyes grew wide in shock, and her face grew serious.

"But Quasimodo – how can that be? I mean, Gringoire had been travelling the country before we found him. He's a poet, trying to write plays – he didn't want to be like the other Parisians. Are you sure it's the same person?"

"I think that it must be. Monsieur Pierre was a very good student; Frollo said I should be more like him. He was a bit of a daydreamer – Frollo said it was the devil trying to lead him from the paths of righteousness – but M. Pierre followed him everywhere, since Frollo was teaching him law. But once Jehan returned, Frollo decided he needed to abandon giving lessons, and devote himself fully to "God, justice, and "purifying" the city." Monsieur Pierre would have kept taking lessons, but he had to leave, and I never saw him since."

Esmeralda was stunned into silence. "I'm sorry, Esmeralda," Quasimodo said guiltily. "I just thought I needed to tell you. I don't know what all my mas – Frollo said to Gringoire. But I just don't think he can truly be a friend to the gypsies after following Frollo for so long, and I think he might even be dangerous."

Esmeralda still wasn't saying anything. "Are you okay?"

"I can't believe I've been such a _fool_," Esmeralda spat bitterly.

"No, you haven't been – "

"Yes I have. How am I going to tell Clopin _I_ of all people let one of Claude Frollo's _students_ among us? _Trusted_ him, and told him our secrets, and put us all in danger?"

"Wait, Esmeralda," Quasimodo protested as she paced frantically, "that wasn't _wrong_ of you. You just gave him a second chance, and you can't blame yourself for doing that. Like you did with me. And like I did with Jehan. It's not too late for you to make things right." That's what he was saying, but he was thinking maybe he shouldn't have said anything, after all. He wasn't used to seeing Esmeralda so upset, and it was a little frightening.

"I don't know. I'm just – going to have to think about this, because I don't know what to do. I'd better get back."

"I understand." He helped her down the side of the church, and as he sat her gently on the cobblestone street, she said seriously, "Thank you for being my friend, Quasimodo. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Quasimodo smiled, because she smiled. But he felt more like her enemy.

Notre Dame was a place of beauty to Quasimodo. To Esmeralda, it was a place of justice and mercy. To Captain Phoebus, it was a sanctuary worthy of protection.

But to La Gudule, it was a fortress in the midst of an evil world, and to Monsieur Jehan Frollo, it was a powerful pawn in a selfish bargain.

As Quasimodo and Esmeralda conversed on the rooftops, our dear Jehan leant against one of the arched doorways of Notre Dame, picking his teeth, his scarlet tunic turned to crimson among the watery shadows. "Where _is_ that old crone?" he thought with exasperation, as he stared idly at the parishioners prostrating themselves on the floor for afternoon prayers. "_She's_ the one who wants to save this place, after all. I shouldn't even _have _to be helping her; I mean, _I'm_ the rightful heir to my brother's money, not some church who would waste it on the irresponsible poor. But," he considered, since he was a very fair soul, "that's life, I suppose." Having evidently forgotten _he _was one of the irresponsible poor, he delicately picked a hunk of capon out of his teeth.

At last he spied Sister Gudule in the shadows at the far corner of the room, and waited, impatient, as she made her way crookedly over to him.

"Master Jehan," she greeted him, sweetly.

"Hello, Sister Gudule. You are late."

"I'm very sorry, I was attending a hanging."

"Oh. Was it a good one?"

"_I_ thought so."

"Hmm," Jehan mused. "I haven't been to one lately. I should go – it could be fun. _Any_way, Sister Gudule, I simply wanted to inform you that…" he lowered his voice as in conspiracy, "our plans are in place."

Sister Gudule was ugly when she was angry, but she was uglier when she was happy. She clutched her hands together with glee, and if her knees had bent, she probably would have danced from joy. "Master Jehan, I feared, when you and your brother parted ways, that you would forget his teachings. But I see you are following in his footsteps instead!"

Following in Claude's dull and principled footsteps was the _last _thing Jehan wanted, but then, he wanted money more. "Yes. Well, I am glad I can – " he grimaced, " – do my brother's work. And I am glad he had enough – ahem – _friends_ in the military to help us out, if you know what I mean."

"How many friends?" La Gudule asked, cocking her head in suspicion.

"I spoke with twenty."

"But do you think that will be enough?"

"I know very little about these matters, but I think it will be enough to give you what you want. And then," he added, casually, "you can give _me_ what _I_ want, if I am ever in need. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, you know." Jehan observed, to his great dissatisfaction, that La Gudule was a bit hesitant to agree with him.

But that could be mended, easily enough.

"Sister Gudule, I'd like to show you something. Come with me." As if he were her dearest friend, Jehan led the old madwoman out the nearest side door, and pointed up to the topmost eaves of the church. "Look up there."

The nun shaded her face and squinted into the afternoon light. "I see nothing, Monsieur Jehan."

"Look harder." Jehan knelt behind her, and with a single finger directed her gaze right to the image of Quasimodo and Esmeralda, as they sat there in silent company.

La Gudule gasped in horror, as if the very breath had been sucked from her. "The demon! And the gypsy witch!"

"Exactly," Jehan sighed. "But," he added, brightening, "it will not be for long. As I said: you scratch my back, and I scratch yours."


	9. Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit

**Chapter 8**

_**Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit:**_

**He has left, absconded, escaped and disappeared**

Claude Frollo's student. Claude Frollo's student.

Monsieur Pierre Gringoire, student of law.

"_I don't want to be a Parisian – my stars say otherwise."_

"_He __**professes **__himself to be a rogue. Those are the sort you must watch out for__."_

A confused array of thoughts pricked at La Esmeralda from every side, as if she were in a swordfight and losing. Night was quickly falling, the sun sinking guiltily beyond the horizon. Esmeralda felt guilty, too, and she didn't like the feeling. _Gringoire's past is just that – his past_, she reminded herself, over and over. _Everyone deserves a second chance, right?_ Of course. Then why did she feel so uneasy, as if she needed to get back to the Court of Miracles _now_?

_Quasimodo is right, surely. I mean, he accepted Frollo's __**brother**__, and it's all working out, right?_ Right. But then…if Quasi would accept Frollo's brother, of all souls, why did he think Gringoire would be so dangerous?

Esmeralda just didn't know what to think. It would be wrong to judge Gringoire unfairly, but she couldn't just forget what Quasimodo had told her. _What would be fair, here?_ she considered, as she pressed on down the lonely trail to the graveyard. _Maybe, instead of telling Clopin right away, I should talk to Gringoire first. Make him explain himself. If his story adds up with what Quasi and I already know – great. If not…well, we can take care of that then._ Yes. That was what she would do.

Having come to a conclusion – taking matters into her own hands – Esmeralda already felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. Well…part of it, at least. What was this strange _dread_ she was feeling? For, as we have said, gypsies are rulers of prediction.

And then she saw it – the secret doors to the Court of Miracles flung wide, a dull light (_"Where there should be no light!"_) issuing from the damp canals below, and the frightening sounds of steel clashing underground and cries of fear.

"Djali! We must be under attack!" Esmeralda cried, and swung herself down into the catacombs without a second thought. She was a _gypsy_ – and so she must fight!

To Esmeralda, the dim illumination of the underground tunnels was more disconcerting than the darkness she was used to – squinting in the rusty colored light, she ran toward the Court's town square, pulling from her bodice a small dagger she had stolen a few months before. (She had at least learned something from Claude Frollo's advances: arm yourself.) She had planned to hide until she could better decide where and who to strike, but as she came into the full light of the square she saw only _chaos._

The intruders were soldiers – Frollo's former troops. With a quick glance, Esmeralda estimated there were 15 or 20 of them, all armed. But it was still a small number, and the gypsies were not backing down. Clopin, all humor gone, was fending off three young soldiers with a pair of daggers, nimbly darting back and forth, pricking one here, cutting another there, keeping them busy in a state of confusion. Pierro had armed himself with a piece of firewood, and was alternately punching the enemy with his good arm and clubbing them over the head with his bad arm. Belznik was running through the crowd with a saber he'd gotten from a fallen soldier, and was slitting their belts so their pants would fall down. And even old Mother Roma was calling down curses from heaven.

But Gringoire was nowhere to be found.

"Esmeralda!" Clopin cried. Esmeralda darted her head as the Gypsy King finally felled his three assailants. "Esmeralda, we must distract them. We must _vanish._"

"We can't run from them, Clopin," Esmeralda argued. "There might be more coming!"

Clopin groaned in exasperation, and ducked as a flying torch hurdled his way. "ESMERALDA! Always the cleverest, eh? I didn't say _run_ – I said _vanish._"

_Vanish?_ Of course! "How could I be so stupid?" Esmeralda muttered as she untied a small vial from a string in her skirt. She uncorked the bottle with her teeth and shook out a few small purple pellets. "Here goes."

POW!

POW!

POW!

Frollo's guards – the 11 still standing – froze as great plumes of violet smoke burst up around the perimeter of the square, the rolling fumes surrounding them and blurring their vision. "Cursed gypsies! They've disappeared!"

But they hadn't disappeared. Under the cover of the smoke, Clopin rushed to Esmeralda's side. "Good girl. We've blinded them. We shall have a few moments to sneak up behind them!" And he mischievously snapped a piece of rope in his hands. Esmeralda took the other end.

The guards didn't know what to do – this, needless to say, hadn't been a part of their training, and so as they formed a circle within the ring of smoke, facing outwards with their weapons raised, they accidentally made themselves an easy target.

Ducking under the purple fog, Esmeralda looped the rope around the soldiers' ankles, crossing Clopin as he dashed in the opposite direction. The smoke was beginning to clear, and one particularly keen-eyed soldier shouted, "THERE!" He made a lunge for the Gypsy King.

But at the same time Clopin simply said, "Pull."

He and Esmeralda yanked the cord; the soldiers knocked into each other, tied like sheaves of wheat, and as one unit they all fell to the ground. Belznik quickly ran up and tied the rope into his special over-underhanded trussing knot.

"_Dang_," said the soldier at the bottom of the pile, in defeat.

The gypsies had acted quickly when danger struck, but now the full magnitude of the invasion hit them hard. "Clopin," said Esmeralda, as they all turned to the Gypsy King, "What _was_ that?"

"A small military squadron – Frollo's former guards," Clopin returned, grimly. "About 20 of them stormed the Court while you were away. I believe they were trying to kill us – last time, you know, they merely wanted to imprison us. But why? What has sparked them to action, all of a sudden? And why did they strike in such a disorderly fashion?" He looked up from studying his toes, and saw Esmeralda wasn't paying attention to him (as usual). "_Esmeralda?_ What are you looking at?" He followed her eyes but all he saw was Gringoire, strolling idly into the square and biting the end of a pen. "Esmeralda? What are you doing?" Because Esmeralda, her handsome features set in a fierce expression, was stalking over to Gringoire even as Clopin spoke.

"_Gringoire!"_

The poet turned, clearly confused by the scene around him. "Esmeralda? What - "

"Gringoire, you are no longer welcome here." Esmeralda was so _angry_, the words came out quiet and cold, through clenched teeth.

"What on earth – "

"We gave you a second chance, Pierre Gringore, and you took advantage of us all."

"Esmeralda, what do you mean?" Clopin demanded, as Gringoire looked around with utter astonishment. "Explain yourself."

"Quasimodo – "

"Quasimodo?" Gringoire echoed, almost to himself.

" – told me all about Gringoire. He said Gringoire was a former student of Judge Claude Frollo's, a devoted student – not the poet we know him to be. Even so, I didn't think Gringoire could mean any harm – I thought Quasi must be mistaken. But then we were attacked, and only one…_outsider _knows our secrets as only a gypsy could."

"The poet-scoundrel," Clopin murmured. "Ah. Now we know why you wanted to be among us. All is clear. A very good _actor_, you are. I see we have found your talent, poet."

"Wait! You believe _I_ did…all this? Summoned these soldiers?" Gringoire turned to the stack of soldiers. "Who sent you?" he asked. The men said nothing.

"You said you'd been going out to practice in the morning," Esmeralda said. "Were you really organizing _this_?"

"No – "

"And yet you did not improve in your tasks," Clopin returned. "Why?"

"I'm just…uncoordinated!" Gringoire protested.

"And all that biased talk about gypsies," Esmeralda said. "You wanted to be one of us, when you found you could learn everything about us."

"Do you honestly believe that of me?" Gringoire grasped on to Esmeralda's wrist: his purple velvet cloak lapped over their arms, and his big clear eyes stared at her with such sincerity that she faltered for a moment. "Have I ever been unkind to you? Have I ever gone back on any word I've given?"

_I cannot be wrong in this,_ Esmeralda thought. Or could she? The gypsies whispering among themselves seemed almost as confused as she did.

Esmeralda's own mind whispered, "_Doesn't even a student of Frollo deserve a second chance?"_

But she had to silence it. _He can't! If the poet was taught by and devoted to __**that**__ man__, who would have burned down Paris, who would have exterminated my race as though they were vermin, who__**did**__ torture and abuse my best friend and the kindest soul in the world – what kind of man can he be_?

And before she could say another word, Clopin – whether through bravado or true feeling, declared, "You came to us as a scoundrel, Pierre Gringoire, and you leave us as a scoundrel!"

"But – "

"Do not contradict me! We really should kill you on the spot, but there has been enough of that for one night. Go with your life, poet-scoundrel – go!"

Gringoire backed away from them. His cape caught underneath his boot, and he stumbled backwards. They all looked so glad to see him go – even little Belznik was pulling mean and ugly faces. Even Esmeralda had turned on him and without her, he knew he had no chance. He had been born a Parisian, and so he must always live in that cold world. Perhaps the gypsy world was no better, after all. "Well then," he whispered, "adieu."

"Good riddance!" cried Clopin with a vindictive jeer. Clopinet echoed, " _Good riddance!_"

And those were the last words Pierre Gringoire should ever have heard from that gypsy troupe.

* * *

Quasimodo often dreamed of the bells, of their sonorous clang…clang…clang; of the stretching and snapping of the ropes, and of his feet thudding on the dusty floors of the belltower. He thought he was simply dreaming again that night, but when he rolled over on his sleeping pallet, irritably, he realized he was actually hearing something _real_ – a commotion downstairs. He raised himself on his elbow. "What's that sound?"

"Sounds like someone's wrestlin'," Hugo suggested.

"Sounds like someone is arguing," Victor added.

"Sounds like someone's in trouble!" Laverne declared, and Quasimodo nodded. "That's what I thought too," he said as he pulled on his tunic and accidentally tossed his nightshirt over Victor's head. "It sounds like they need help."

Snatching up a candle, Quasimodo crept quietly down the stairwell. What could be wrong at so late an hour?

As he reached the final few steps, and made his way through the sanctuary, he saw a light in Jehan's room in the west nave. Could Jehan be in trouble? All was silent now, and Quasimodo felt uneasy.

"Jehan?" he called, softly. "Jehan, are you okay – "

And suddenly he heard, nearby, the same scuffling noise he'd awakened to, and then he heard a scream that made his blood run cold. It was a woman's scream!

Quasimodo, heart pounding, hurried in the direction of the noise near the front of the church. His legs still numb from sleep, he tripped, his candle rolling off into some unknown corner. "I don't have time," he told himself and then, as if he summoned it, he heard another scream.

Rounding the corner he saw, dimly in the thick darkness, a crumpled figure on the ground, lying very still. "She must be hurt badly," Quasimodo thought. "And the villain must have gotten away." But maybe there was still time to help her, whoever she was. Quasi limped quickly to the woman's side. He bent over, and gently nudged her, when he felt a searing pain in his left cheek, as if he'd been clawed by a wild animal. He staggered back with a cry, and he felt hands tearing at his face and hair. "Demon!" he heard a withered voice cry. "Murderer!"

"Murderer?" Quasimodo tried to free himself from the clasp of the old woman. "No – you don't understand!"

"Ah, but I do understand!" The woman dug her sharp nails into his arm, and in an effort to get away without hurting her Quasimodo stumbled into the cathedral doors. He felt for the handle, opened one, and the pair fell out onto the street.

"Stop! Please, I was only trying to help – " Quasimodo paused, for now, in the moonlight, the old woman's bruised and bleeding face was illuminated. "Sister Gudule?"

"I am. You thought you could be rid of me, yes. You thought that because _I _was in possession of Claude Frollo's fortune, and would give it to Notre Dame, you must murder me! You are the murderous monster who would have us all dead! You are the hunchback of Notre Dame!"

All Quasimodo could say was "No…no! It's not true!"

Suddenly lights appeared all around them – from the sweat trickling into his eyes, he thought they almost looked like scars. But they were torches, and they were followed by hoofbeats and shouting.

"Captain Phoebus! Save me!" La Gudule cried, and soon Phoebus' confused face was illuminated by fire.

"She was almost killed by Quasimodo!" another soldier cried.

"No, it isn't true!" Quasimodo protested, trying to raise himself but wincing under the pain.

"Quiet, men!" Phoebus raised his hand to silence them, and dismounted. "Let Sister Gudule speak."

"Captain Phoebus, I awoke in the night and was praying in the sanctuary, when I was attacked. I could not see my attacker but I knew from his strength he was the hunchbacked monster. The moon showed him clearly to me. Look at my injuries, sir." And she turned around to show him the damage.

Phoebus furrowed his brow.

"Sister Gudule is a holy nun," his soldiers whispered. "She must be trusted above anyone else. Quasimodo must prove his innocence against her hallowed word."

Phoebus barely heard the voices of his comrades, but he looked hard at Quasimodo, trying to catch his eye. _Say something to save yourself_, he willed the hunchback to say. They were outside the cathedral walls, and so Quasimodo could not even claim the sanctuary of his home_ Say something__**, anything**__, so I don't have to do this._

But Quasimodo said nothing.

"Arrest him." His soldiers made a move toward Quasimodo.

He did not expect the violent outburst that followed.

"You know better than this!" Quasimodo roared as he laid eyes on Phoebus' face. He threw off the soldiers, his face contorted and monstrous.

Phoebus went deathly pale; the scene before him, the violence and chaos as his soldiers fought to restrain the tormented hunchback over La Gudule's fevered cries, made him sick to his core. "Quasimodo –" he fumbled miserably, stepping towards his friend in supplication, "you know I don't mean to – " But he quickly pulled back as Quasimodo, in one last mighty effort, reared himself up to eye level with the soldier. Phoebus' breath caught in his throat as Quasimodo, scarcely three inches from his face, searched him with his great globe of an eye.

"You know better. You know better about _me_," the hunchback managed to choke out, his anger wrestling with the words in his throat, "and you know better about _her_. _You know better_!" Quasimodo groaned as two broad-shouldered soldiers bore down upon him and shackled his wrists behind his back. Powerless to rebel, Quasimodo, at last, just let them do it. They shackled his ankles with iron chains and they tied a rough rope around his beast's neck, and Quasimodo stood there, panting and glowering, through it all.

Phoebus passed a hand over his eyes, his breath ragged; he could feel Quasimodo's relentless eye burning on his face. Then, summoning every bit of cowardly courage he could pull from within himself as Captain of the Lord and King, he squared his shoulders and said in a low and even voice, "Quasimodo of Notre Dame, you are under arrest. You are under arrest for the attempted murder of Sister Gudule."

And as La Gudule, triumphant, scuttled out into the darkness, and as they led the hunchback away, Captain Phoebus de Martin stood in the weak light of the candle that shivered through the cathedral doors, dropped his hands to his sides, and bowed his head in despair.

* * *

He had been fooled by the old witch of a nun. How could he have misunderstood? Sister Gudule was _in possession_ of his brother's fortune?

Jehan was disgusted, partially with himself, but mostly with everyone else, as was his usual rule. He recalled his conversation with the madwoman just a few hours before.

"La Gudule," he had announced as he met her in the church sanctuary, "your fears are finished, for the gypsies are no more."

She had clapped her hands. "No more? Dead, then?"

"Like ants. My brother's former guards were more than pleased to do the deed – for a small fee, of course."

"A small fee? Ah, Monsieur Jehan, you _are_ your brother's brother! To reach into your _own_ pockets to preserve the sanctity of Notre – "

"Wait," he had interrupted quickly, with a frown. "My _own_ pockets?"

"Yes, certainly."

"But…no, Sister Gudule, I am afraid you don't understand," he explained. "I intend to use a portion of my brother's riches to pay these soldiers."

"Oh no, Monsieur Jehan, that is out of the question. Because, you see, Claude Frollo left the money to _me_, and I intend to use it for the glorification of Notre Dame."

Jehan had tried – ah, how he had tried! – to hide the anger mounting to his face and turning his pale cheek as red as his clothes. "But, ahem, Sister Gudule?" he had said, sweetly, "I thought we were in agreement? That I was to…purify the city? The gypsies, and so forth?"

"Yes, sir, I agreed to that."

"Mm hmm, and…why, you knew I would expect some recompense? I scratch your back, you know?"

"I don't understand your meaning. Of course, I should very much like to thank you for your deeds, but I cannot give to you your brother's money, due to the conditions of the will, which leaves it to me until God decides to take me from this earth. Be certain, however, that I will pray most diligently for your immortal soul." And she gave what was, for Sister Gudule, a winning smile. "I also hope you do not place yourself in debt to these soldiers, for, as we know, debt leads only to damnation." That was the last she had said – until he had her screaming in fear later that night.

Jehan felt sick to his stomach at the memory. WHY had the universe conspired so that he _must_ kill Sister Gudule? It wasn't _his_ fault he was poor, now was it? What else was he to do?

He paused – was someone coming? – and ducked back into the shadows. Ah, well, at least no one _knew_ he had killed her – at least he had escaped. It was, of course, a shame that Quasimodo would be suspected, since he had come down just as Jehan had escaped, but what was _he_ to do about it? He couldn't be caught by that Captain Freebus or whatever he was called and taken away to the dungeons. Never!

Jehan, however, was jarred from his thoughts as he collided with another passerby in the street. He swore inwardly but, trying to maintain his nonchalance Jehan muttered, "Pardon," and quickly dashed away.

But he had not gone fast enough. Mariette had seen him.


	10. It was not Quasimodo

_**A/N: **Kind of a shortish chapter this time, I know. This story is taking FOREVER to finish, but hopefully everyone's still enjoying it._

_And I'm not going overboard on my use of Gringoire, am I? He's sort of an OC but he *was* in the original book, after all..._

**Chapter 9**

"**It was not Quasimodo."**

Gringoire's purple cloak did not seem sumptuous, or artistic, or anything anymore. He found it just got in his way now, and did nothing to keep out the chill autumn wind.

He supposed it was almost midnight now, as pale sharp stars were beginning to appear in the dark sky. "Quasimodo," Gringoire muttered to himself. "I had never thought I'd hear that name again! No wonder they didn't trust me." He sighed, and idly kicked a stone on the street as he pushed along.

Gringoire knew his time with Frollo was nothing to be proud of. He had to admit, even to himself, that Judge Frollo _did_ have one of the most brilliant minds in Paris – that was why he had wished, so badly, to study under his influence. But he also had one of the cruelest and blackest hearts Gringoire had ever seen. He remembered how Quasimodo, the poor young hunchback (almost 14 when Gringoire first met him?) was a near slave to the judge, how Gringoire would be forced to sit by in respectful deference as Frollo berated the poor creature in the midst of their studies on justice (which sometimes spilled over from the Palace of Justice to the cathedral).

"_He must be disciplined, you know,"_ Frollo would tell Gringoire politely as they returned to their books. _"He is very often lazy and unprincipled, and he tends to force his slothful ways on my brother, Jehan."_

Ugh, Jehan was almost as bad as Frollo – he had the charm Frollo lacked but scarcely a third of his intelligence. At first, Gringoire had appreciated the youth's sense of humor and even might agree to a practical joke or two. But he soon saw that Jehan was only charming so long as he got his way, and when he did not, he revealed how ungrateful, spoilt, and even vengeful he truly was.

As he walked along the streets Gringoire remembered how a few years ago, perhaps two, he had had his nose buried in a thick law book, feeling that law – at least, according to Frollo – was far drearier than he had ever imagined. _"Where is the justice in any of this? I thought that laws were supposed to help people."_ He flipped through a few dry pages as he waited for Frollo to finish his business there in Notre Dame. _"But they only seem to divide and punish them."_ He had jumped as he heard crooked footsteps outside the study door.

"_Oh, pardon me Monsieur Pierre!_" It was Quasimodo. But before the words had left his mouth Frollo had appeared out of thin air, like some kind of demon_. "Quasimodo! How dare you interrupt my pupil in his studies?" _He struck the boy on his flabby cheek. "_That will be another day in silence for you, since you clearly do not appreciate its virtues. To your belltower, at once."_

"_Yes, master."_

As Pierre watched Quasimodo limp away, he noticed Jehan lurking behind his brother's robes, clearly chuckling behind Quasimodo's back.

Gringoire had turned back to his studying – his face was burning. How could he profess himself a student of – of Justice? – when he was too weak to stop the cruelty of a single man?

And so he had snapped his book shut. "_Monsieur Frollo," _he said, looking the judge straight in the eye,_ "I can no longer serve as your student. Our philosophies_ _are far too different, for I find your unkindess to the hunchback boy appalling."_

Gringoire had been surprised that he had spoken so…sensibly, since he was usually so vapid. So, evidently, was Frollo, for he had turned as white as stone.

"_How dare you,"_ he gasped, _"so insult a Minister of Justice?"_

"_W-when you show me one, I shall apologize."_

Jehan laughed and Frollo, for once, silenced him. He then resumed his normal even expression, and regarded his student. "_Very well, Pierre Gringoire. I suppose you think you have learnt all you need; I am afraid to tell you that you are clearly incapable of rational thought, and so unfit for most anything – unless someone takes pity on you. As I have."_

But Gringoire had tasted defiance, and it was almost as good as wine. "_Well then! If I am not fit for life in Paris I…I suppose I shall have to become a poet and travel the countryside!"_

And that was exactly what he had done, armed with only a pen and paper and a fresh mind. No one understood why he worked so long at his pathetic poems and plays. But he was determined to write _something_ that would change the world more than any strict laws would do, so he had daydreamed and travelled until he decided to pass through the city again, just a few weeks past. "How could my time with Frollo haunt me so? I suppose it is simply recompense for my cowardice during those years, even if I _did _finally rebel. But oh, the irony! Enough for an epic tragedy. Oof!" Gringoire, absent-minded as usual, had evidently collided with something. He looked down and saw it was a little girl who was crying.

"My dear, what is the matter?" Gringoire asked, beginning to note a chorus of fervent voices far away.

"Please sir, is it true? Is Quasimodo really to be locked up for murder?"

_Murder?_ "Child, what are you talking about?"

"Everyone is gathered in the square, saying that Quasimodo killed that wicked Sister Gudule. But it's not true, it was not Quasimodo! I saw Frollo's brother Jehan running away when I went to close the goat pen before bed, and no one will listen to me!"

"Here, child, dry your eyes." Finally, the cape was useful for something. But when the girl took it in her hands she cried, in a burst of childish recognition, "Wait! You are the man who is friends with Esmeralda, aren't you!"

"Well…yes."

"Oh, sir! I'm Mariette Garouche! Can you take me to her? Other than me, she is Quasimodo's dearest friend, and if anyone can save him, she can!"

Gringoire wasn't sure what to do…how could he return to the gypsies? They would never take him back. But Mariette took his hand so trustingly, he knew he had to somehow.

"I will take you there, child, but I don't think they'll be happy to see me. Stay close, and follow me!"

* * *

Gringoire rather wished he had brought some kind of weapon, for he feared Clopin might have guards placed in case he returned.

_But it's better not to think of that,_ he decided as he and Mariette pulled open the doors to the secret catacombs. "Be careful," he warned, and descended first.

The second he dropped into the darkness Gringoire was confronted by five glaring, jangling skulls, and felt his arms pinned behind his back.

"Maybe you've heard of a terrible place…"

"Wait!" Gringoire cried. "Pierro, is that you?"

"Where the scoundrels of Paris – "

"Pierro, please! Quasimodo is in danger!"

"Collect in a lair…"

The little girl screamed behind them.

"Mariette!"

"Maybe you've heard – "

"Wait, men, stop!" It was Pierro's voice. One of the skull masks disappeared in the darkness. "Gringoire, do you have Mariette with you?"

"Yes!"

"She plays with Belznik…Esmeralda's mentioned her too. Let 'em go."

"M. Pierro, we must see Esmeralda," Mariette insisted.

"Can you take us there? Please? It's a matter of life or death!" Gringoire waited breathlessly as Pierro considered. Without a word, the red-bearded gypsy led them on in silence.

The Court square was empty, for everyone was still asleep. "You call for her," Gringoire told Pierro and so, taking his orders literally, Pierro bellowed, "ESMERALDA!"

Esmeralda tumbled out of her tent in a green dressing gown. "Pierro, what the h – " Her eyes narrowed as she spied Gringoire. "What are _you_ doing here?" she demanded. At about this moment an unshaven and nightgowned Clopin staggered out of his tent (the one with the banners flying above it). He blinked, sighted Pierro with Gringoire, and instantly cried "TREASON!"

But as soon as Esmeralda saw Mariette, her face softened. "Mariette, what on earth are you doing here?"

"Please don't be angry with Monsieur Gringoire, he was only helping me. Esmeralda, Quasimodo has been arrested, accused of murder! He's to be put in prison!"

"Put in prison! But that means – " Esmeralda knew exactly what that meant, and they hadn't a moment to spare. "But why do they say that?"

"He apparently attacked Sister Gudule," Gringoire supplied, "but I don't believe that. Mariette said she saw Jehan Frollo running from the scene of the crime."

"I _knew_ it! A Frollo is a Frollo."

"Yes, I – I think that's true," Gringoire nodded. "And I also think he might have had something to do with the attack on your people today. Those guards were Frollo's henchmen."

"Then you didn't send them. You were telling the truth." Esmeralda sounded tired, but it wasn't because of the late hour – it was from regret. "Of course it was Jehan. I trusted Quasimodo's kind heart more than the facts in front of me. I'm sorry, Gringoire."

"True. But it was _I_ who studied under such a man, and tainted my reputation," Gringoire added. "And I have regretted it ever since."

"BEAUtiful words, yes, but what of Quasimodo?" Clopin demanded.

"We have to save him. Our only hope lies in the villagers; the soldiers will never listen to us – gypsies and a poet – but they might listen to an entire crowd of Frenchmen."

"But what will we do?" Clopin asked critically, stroking his chin. And then he knew. "If we cannot use force (though we shall try!) we shall have to put on a performance, and no one knows how better to do this than Pierre Gringoire, former poet-scoundrel."

"I'll try my best." For once, he would be good at something. He had to be.

* * *

It was probably two o'clock in the morning. Esmeralda pulled her hood over her dark hair and tried to blend into the crowd of shrieking villagers.

"Murderer!"

"Monster!"

They were so fickle, so willing to turn on their friend and believe a lie. _They know no better – and hopefully they will be as willing to change their minds in Quasimodo's favor._

She and a crew of other gypsies, all in their drabbest clothes, crept noiselessly up to the Palace of Justice. Was Quasi within one of those wretched cells now, where Esmeralda had suffered just a few months before? She shuddered.

And then she felt a large, heavy hand clasp onto her shoulder. She grasped at her cloak to cover herself as the hand wheeled her around to meet a face.

"Phoebus?" He knew her even when she was disguised, apparently.

"I'm sorry, Esmeralda – "

But she had forgiven him already. She couldn't help it. "Don't be sorry, I overreacted – "

"No, _listen_." Phoebus' face was dead serious. "You don't understand. _I_ locked him up."

"Y-you – "

"I'm the cathedral guard. Nothing ever happens in a church, huh? I had to do it, it's the law. But I know I have to get him out, too."

Esmeralda would have been speechless if she wasn't Esmeralda. "Why did you _have_ to do it, Phoebus? We both know he's innocent. You're the cathedral guard – can't you defend him?"

"No. It's his word against Sister Gudule's, because she is a nun."

"But she's crazy!"

"_I know that_. But if we can convince her to change her mind – convince her of the truth, maybe we can get him out of there and save him."

Would it work? Esmeralda bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder at the gypsies advancing on the prisons. "They can handle this without me. Let's go."


	11. A Star in the Belltower

_Hehe…sorry I've taken so long to update, guys! As if a four-month-hiatus weren't shameful enough I've actually had half the chapter written, but I got so busy with regular life I just didn't take the time to sit down and write all this out. We're nearing the end but also the point at which I've had to change some things from my original outline so I'm sort of having to wing it – I apologize in advance if there are any inconsistencies! I hope you still enjoy it though and leave me a review to let me know you're still reading this thing, haha. _

**Chapter 10**

**A Star in the Belltower**

Beneath the sharp and ornate towers of the Palace of Justice, deep underground, there was built a fearful and wretched dungeon. Tiny, dripping brick rooms, barred and dark, lined the walls, with only a single ground-level window (if you were lucky) that peered upon the world beyond. Your only visitor for days on end might be an inquisitive and hungry rat. His company would be far better than that of the jailer, who might appear like a demon to bring you your crust of bread. Either would be better than the man in the black veil, for his face would be the last you saw in this world.

It was here that Quasimodo was led by a pair of Phoebus' men in the middle of the night. Quasimodo remained silent and stubborn in appearance, with a fierce glower present in all his ugly features, but his thoughts were very different from the look – they were frightened. As the guards threw him in the cell – a pair of Phoebus' men, Quasimodo snorted with disgust, both utterly careless that he stumbled and fell and that the ropes cut into his wrists– the hunchback dully observed how different this underground room was from his belltower in the sky. He was used to living far above the citizens of Paris, among the clouds and the birds and not these iron bars and vermin. He was used to the deep, warm sounds of bells, not the hollow, shallow dripping of water in a puddle somewhere in the unknown distance. As the guards, wordless, left him, he wondered if he'd ever see Notre Dame again.

"I'll die tomorrow." Quasimodo knew well enough what his punishment would be. There would be no reprieve – even the most respected citizens were guilty until proven innocent and he knew he, a hunchbacked monster accused of killing a nun of all people – would have no trial, no mercy at all. But the odd thing about it all – as if dying weren't bad enough – was that he was so disappointed in knowing that it was all his own fault. As he had been hauled to the Palace in a cart, the townspeople screaming in the square, he had had very little to think of and so had tried to determine who, in fact, _had _attacked the nun, since it certainly was not him. He pictured the church in the darkness – had he seen any thief or stranger or odd unfamiliar shapes in the shadows? Had there been any clue who might have attacked La Gudule?

The realization that it must have been Jehan who attacked the sister was accompanied with far less shock than Quasimodo might have expected. Ever since Frollo's death, La Gudule had come to the sanctuary every night to pray – only Quasi himself, the archdeacon, Phoebus and Jehan could know that, for they were the only ones there. And what was it she had screamed in her cruel and accusing rant? _"You thought that because I was in possession of Claude Frollo's fortune, and would give it to Notre Dame, you must murder me!"_ Quasi knew Frollo had been owner of a great fortune (he could be quite miserly), but he had no idea it had gone to La Gudule – he figured it had perished with him because of his suicide. But Jehan came back as soon as Frollo's fortune was free for the taking. And Frollo's brother was nowhere to be found in the midst of all the chaos later on.

Yet it didn't matter, really, Quasimodo knew. La Gudule wished to have him dead, and it would be up to her to free him. And even if, through some miracle, she_ did_ somehow find out the truth and take it all back, the townspeople would demand his hanging anyway.

"_Et non mirum ipse enim Satanas transfigurat se in angelum lucis."_ Quasimodo could hear Frollo's ice-cold voice, even now, so clearly and so deadly reciting the strange rote of foreign words. "Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light." How many times had he heard his master say that?

"I've been such a fool – I should have listened to myself when I was worried about Jehan. It all makes sense now." _Satan himself masquerades as in angel of light. _Frollo was right in the end. Quasimodo had been too trusting, a fool. A fool without a true friend in the world, except for Esmeralda, and even she wouldn't befriend a…a murderer –

"Esmeralda! Oh no…" Quasimodo paled at the realization, and just the thought of her name roused him from his self pitying stupor. As soon as Esmeralda heard he was in trouble, he knew she'd try to free him. "But she's a gypsy, she's sure to get trapped herself if she comes anywhere near here – especially with La Gudule in charge! Oh, now I've put them all at risk!"

Quasimodo, feverishly, clamped onto the bars of his little window and raised himself so he could see out. He really had no doubt that Esmeralda would be coming for him – she had proven herself to be such a true friend even in the worst odds and greatest danger to herself that he was overwhelmed with fear for her. "She cannot stop this – I have to warn her if I can!" He looked into the darkness for any sign of Esmeralda or the gypsies with some indistinct idea he would call to them and turn them away. But there were no gypsies there.

And what he saw astonished him.

* * *

"What exactly do you think we are going to accomplish, Phoebus?" Esmeralda asked as they made their way through the furious crowds toward the towers of Notre Dame. She was worried about Clopin and Gringoire's plan, so she knew they had to try another option to free Quasimodo. But would it work?

"Think about it," Phoebus responded as he scanned the crowd for the nun. "La Gudule has had Quasimodo imprisoned. And so La Gudule can free him if she understands that he did no wrong and recants at the Palace of Justice."

Esmeralda had her doubts, and she was beginning to wonder what she had been thinking by going along. _I'm only going to make things worse,_ she thought as she kept alongside Phoebus. _The woman hates me. In her eyes it will simply be evil defending evil._ But there was no time for her to protest – they were already in sight of the nun.

It was easy enough to find La Gudule, for she was close to Notre Dame, even in the midst of all the madness. The guards had tried to take her to a safer place but she had refused, since the hunchback was imprisoned in the earth. It was as though she was protecting the cathedral, like it was a frightened child.

"There she is," Phoebus said in a low voice.

"You'd better go without me," Esmeralda warned him. "She won't listen to me – I'm a gypsy."

Phoebus whirled on her, almost with indignation. "Come on, Esmeralda, you knew Quasimodo better than anyone. You can plead his case – and I'll make her listen to you. That much I can do." Esmeralda looked up at Phoebus' determined face, and she remembered why she loved him – even if he could be an idiot at times. Fine. She'd try.

"Hark, Sister Gudule! I must have a word with you!" Phoebus shouted.

Sister Gudule raised herself, like an insect, off the stoop of the cathedral. "Have they killed the hunchback yet?" she inquired greedily. Esmeralda drew in a hard breath and clenched her fist beneath her cloak, and Phoebus continued, calmly, "No. In truth, Sister, we believe he has been falsely accused."

"Bah!"

Now even Phoebus gritted his teeth, counted to five, and forced himself to remain calm. "Sister Gudule, please listen to me. Quasimodo is still one of God's creatures, like it or not, and as good people we must have mercy upon him. Treat others as you would be treated, after all." _Those Sunday School lessons had better work, _Phoebus thought dryly.

La Gudule screwed her face up, but she was silent.

"Sister, I would – if you please – like you to listen to someone who knows Quasimodo very well."

"I do not think – " the nun began, but her face blackened as Esmeralda stepped forth.

"_The gypsy witch!"_

Esmeralda shook her head. "Please, Sister Gudule, listen to me – "

"_Do not speak my name!_ Temptress!"

"No! I tell you, Sister, I am just a poor soul." It was clear the woman would not listen to her, whether she was a poor soul or not. Then, in a flash, Esmeralda realized: _If I am to win over La Gudule, I must show care for the one thing she loves – Notre Dame._ Thinking quickly and carefully, Esmeralda slipped off an emerald necklace, her most expensive piece of jewelry and one she had owned for almost as long as she remembered. _It's a poor exchange for Quasi's life,_ she thought, _but it's all I have._ "Sister," she tried, "I wish to show you my devotion to Notre Dame. Please, take this as a token of my goodwill – if you were to sell it, you could give the money to the church."

"Good idea," Phoebus murmured, but before Esmeralda could reply, just as the madwoman nun laid hands on the jewel, she instantly began screeching, like the bat she appeared to be.

"THE DEVIL GAVE YOU THIS! THE DEVIL GAVE IT TO YOU!"

"Wait, no!" Esmeralda protested, completely shocked by the reaction.

"YOU ARE A THIEF, A MONSTER!"

"I am _no _thief! I've had that necklace since I was a child!"

The nun, shrieking, made a lunge for Esmeralda, but Phoebus intercepted and nearly knocked the woman to the ground. "La Gudule, calm yourself!" he shouted as if he were giving orders on the battlefield. "Esmeralda is trustworthy and kind! The "devil" must be deceiving_ you_!"

For a moment, the only sounds were Phoebus' heavy, angry breathing, and La Gudule's stifled cries. Esmeralda watched, with a mixture of bewilderment and pity, as the woman practically crawled on the ground over to her feet. Phoebus moved to stop her but Esmeralda, a strange feeling coming over her, said, "Wait." Phoebus frowned but stopped his advance because Sister Gudule had lost her violence and was, instead, clinging to Esmeralda's skirts and openly sobbing.

And because Esmeralda was Esmeralda, and like no one else in the world, she knelt down and asked the old woman, "What's wrong?"

"You are the child!"

There was another uncomfortable silence – what could they say? At last, completely confused, Phoebus demanded, "What child?"

"The child she lost," Esmeralda whispered. "Just as Quasi said." _She was sure the gypsies had taken it, as they departed the city soon after. And so she hated them for their theft. It was a hatred that grew out of sadness._

"Wait, then. She's your…mother?" Phoebus had to admit, he was at a loss with this one.

"Not her mother. She was merely a baby when I took her from the foundling's orphanage – her true parents had died in a plague. I didn't hate the gypsies then – until they took you away from me." The look on her face was of such loss and such undeniable _hatred._

Esmeralda found that she was having a hard time responding. Could it truly be possible this woman was her adopted mother? For as long as she had lived, she had been told she was a child of Paris and that her parents had died in a plague. She had always known that, but there was no mention of the nun. But of course, when she had joined Clopin's troupe a few years ago, he and the others would have no knowledge of La Gudule and so wouldn't recognize or mention her at all, though they passed her in the street often. She racked her brain for any recollection of the woman's face. She seemed to have a vague memory of playing with a black dress as a child, but she assumed it had been a discarded garment scattered by the gypsies. Could it have been a habit? She looked carefully at the woman's features, now so twisted with shock and grief, and she seemed to detect something familiar. She might have known her when she was younger and happier.

And even if the nun was mistaken – though, in truth, Esmeralda was doubting that – if she could bring the poor woman a moment of happiness, so be it.

"I…don't think they meant to steal from you," Esmeralda offered, gently. "I was born a gypsy, you know."

"And I heard of the terrible things they did to children. I saw how poor their own little brats were, and if they hadn't eaten you already, I knew I could do God's duty and care for you far better than _they_ ever did. And I was so lonely." The last sentence was scarcely a whisper.

Esmeralda helped the woman to stand. And – it was strange – but her face did not seem so frightening anymore; it seemed sad. "I gave you that necklace," she murmured.

"Thank you," Esmeralda said. "And – Sister Gudule? I want you to know the gypsies made me happy. They were good people. And I would have visited you if I had known the truth. Believe me."

Phoebus watched, in utter astonishment, as La Gudule hugged a gypsy.

It would take him awhile to figure this one out.

But while La Gudule appeared docile, he took advantage of the situation and said quickly, "Sister, you_ must _help us save Esmeralda's friend!"

"Agnes. Her name is Agnes."

Agnes? Esmeralda and Phoebus looked at each other. Yuck.

"Quasimodo meant you no harm – I know it," Esmeralda insisted. "I don't want you to be fooled, Sister, you deserve the truth. Jehan Frollo tried to kill you."

Sister Gudule's shook her head, unable to comprehend such an outrageous statement against the brother of a judge. Still wary of Esmeralda (because, I am sad to say, old habits are hard to break), she looked to Phoebus for confirmation. "Is it true?"

"If Esmeralda says so, then it must be."

"But – but he is the brother of Claude Frollo!" La Gudule protested, as if that were credit toward his reputation. "He was raised by a servant of the Lord."

"But, nevertheless, he is a scoundrel," Esmeralda responded firmly. She forced herself to leave Frollo out of this discussion – recalling his cruelty and wickedness would get them nowhere here. "And we are not simply guessing – our source is Pierre Gringoire, Frollo's former student, a man of justice."

Sister Gudule, though far from the stubborn hag she usually was, was still unsure. Wouldn't _you_ be unsure if everything you thought you knew – like the wickedness of gypsies, the integrity of Jehan Frollo, and the loss of your adopted child – had changed overnight?

Phoebus, on his part, was growing increasingly impatient. As a soldier, he knew that in a time of crisis every single second was of utmost importance, that each tick of the clock brought them closer to Quasimodo's sentence. He could only hope the gypsies had made some leeway in breaking Quasi out –

"Sister Gudule," he broke in at last, "we _need_ you. Your daughter needs you, the guards of Notre Dame need you – Notre Dame _herself _needs you, for without the hunchback the cathedral has no voice – it is just a silent shell, like a person without a soul. Please, Sister – lend your truth to your cause."

Esmeralda looked carefully at the nun. Had Phoebus' speech – his talent of rousing soldier, civilian, and (hopefully) the clergy – succeeded?

"God forgive me if I do wrong, but only God could work such miracles and wonders in a single night! I will speak." She looked grave and thoughtful. "But I am an old woman. Even if I were to speak on the hunchback's behalf, how would we get the villagers to listen?"

In all honesty, neither Phoebus nor Esmeralda had a plan for this – they had hardly expected to convince La Gudule at all. What _would _make the City of Paris stop their chatter, their shouting, call their attention and warn them of the danger they were creating with every word and action?

And then Esmeralda knew.

"Phoebus," she ordered as she threw off her cloak and motioned for Djali, "you must help Sister Gudule – figure out what you will say to the people. I know how to get their attention."

"But how?" La Gudule demanded (rather afraid of her former-adopted-child's boldness).

"Quasimodo told me how."

* * *

In the darkness of his cell, Quasimodo continued to pull his misshapen form up by the iron bars to the tiny window. The entire window was smaller than his face so he was forced to twist and squint if he hoped to see his belltower better.

"Am I really seeing – what I think I'm seeing?" he asked himself, vaguely wondering if his imprisonment were already driving him to madness. For Notre Dame, at this late hour, should have been empty, and it was not – in the darkness, there was a light twinkling among the pillars and the gargoyles, like a star. But it was no star.

Someone had lit a candle, and was in his belltower.


	12. Crying For Its Master

_Okay, so I've been putting this off for a long time because I didn't know how to wrap this up well. But I vowed never to have an unfinished fic on and so I figured a crappy ending is better than none at all. ;) And then I can write stuff without feeling guilt, haha._

_So please enjoy this next-to-last chapter and I'll post the last one tomorrow._

**Chapter 11**

**Crying For Its Master**

Quasimodo was quartered in the western part of the dungeon, facing the belltower and the square. But Clopin, Gringoire, and the gypsy troupe were steadily advancing from the east, out of view of both the hunchback and the prison guards. They were all clothed in their most unassuming costume; instead of their usual jewel-like finery, they were now a barely discernible group of grey and brown figures, with a slightly more fantastic grey figure at their head.

"Poet-scoundrel, tell me your plan at once," Clopin hissed (assuming, since _he_ was ready, Gringoire must be also).

However, Gringoire was used to strolling through shady knolls and picturesque towns, composing his works word by perfect word in complete leisure. The events of this day and night – his supposed guilt, the attack on the Court of Miracles, his banishment and return to the gypsy troupe, and now the violence and chaos in the streets – combined to confuse and muddle his brain more than ever.

"Speak, Gringoire, speak!" Clopin ordered. "The boy needs us. We haven't time to spare."

The Gypsy King was right, of course – every moment led closer to dawn and to Quasimodo's death. Gringoire took a shaky breath. If he were to atone for his inglorious past and to make a true difference in a man's life – his greatest dream – he had to do more than dream. He had to act.

"Very well, Clopin. My plan is this…"

-X-

Jehan had disappeared easily enough – by keeping to the alleys and backways he knew well and had often traveled rebelliously in his proper youth, he quickly made it to the outskirts of the city. He prided himself on his discretion and secrecy – in the midst of all the tumult, only the little brat he had collided with in the street had paid him any mind, and she was just a peasant and a child beside, so she was of no threat to him.

However, just as he had pulled the last silver coin in his possession from his pocket, ready to pay the ferryman to take him across the river and out of sight and suspicion (until he could return to claim what was rightfully his) a thought struck him.

"Quasimodo was imprisoned on my behalf, yet he is friends with that guard, Frisbee or Beavis or whatever. That soldier could have freed him, and yet he did not – and the only thing that could hinder a Royal Guard's judgment is…" Jehan dropped his silver coin in the dust as the realization struck him. "Good God! Sister Gudule, then – she must not be dead! She is alive and has accused Quasimodo!"

Jehan quickly gave a frantic and nonsensical explanation to the ferryman, pocketed his fare, and began tearing off his cloak and hat which, in the light of the torches that were now setting the streets of Paris ablaze, would quickly betray him in rusty spots of the recent violence. "I have to go _back_. Curses! That old woman has a demon I think – but that doesn't matter now. If I do not return, Sister Gudule shall keep the money, and I will be poorer than ever – destitute and friendless. But if I return, I risk suspicion."

Or did he? "No one but a girl child noticed my flight. And…and in this chaos…well...perhaps I could be a voice of reason." As Jehan pressed back down the streets he had so lately traveled, slender fingertips placed together in crafty thought, he could have been mistaken for his brother come back from the dead. "The law is very strict, and like it or not, the townspeople must listen to a nun before a captain, but to a sane man like myself before a madwoman." What was it Sister Gudule had said? "The money is mine until God decides to take it from me." Jehan now realized that God worked in ways other than murder or death. He would have to go back, and he would need assistance. Yes. He would have to hurry.

-X-

"Do you really think Quasimodo did it?" A big, brawny guard, perched on a stool outside the prison door, shifted his weight and looked quizzically at his companion. "Well do you?"

"I dunno. Do you?"

"I dunno." But orders was orders, and if a nun said so, and Captain Phoebus went and arrested the hunchback, who were they to judge?

As the two guards sat there, fidgeting and scratching themselves, Clopin and his gypsies crept in from the east, out of sight. "An addle-brained trick, Gringoire proposed, but we must do our part, lads. Come, and be quick about it!" Clopin, all his usual clownishness at bay, brandished a crowbar and motioned to a small and lonely window, just barely visible at ground level. It was quite a distance away from where the five man band stood, shrouded in darkness, but even so they could clearly see, in the moon and torchlight, a pair of big rough hands clasped onto the iron bars. "Quasimodo." The poor beast, Clopin knew, must be struggling below, yearning for his tower and his freedom. That was why they must help him. And so they waited patiently, and completely against Clopin's nature, for the sign from Gringoire and Belznik. Only then could they force the prison doors, and the gypsies hidden in east, west, north and south could flood the prison and free Quasimodo. Only then.

"Poet-scoundrel, we are counting on you."

Gringoire already knew it. Crouching down to Belznik's level, he quickly reminded the boy of his lines. Gringoire had met the gypsies thanks to Belznik's drama over the stolen lunch. Now it would come in handy. "You understand? Good! Now deliver them. With _feeling_! Make me proud!" And, biting his theatrical fingernails, he fairly tossed Belznik in front of the guards and waited for his cue. They were about to deliver a life-saving masterpiece.

The two guards looked up and blinked. Belznik looked back at them, speechless with stage fright.

_Of course,_ Gringoire thought with a groan. _The one time we need him to talk._

"Whaddya want, kid? The Palace of Justice is no place for a runt like you," the philosophical guard barked gruffly. The prison guards had little patience with anyone, and especially not with a scrawny street boy.

"Uh…me?" Belznik asked.

"Yeah, you."

"Um…"Belznik cleared his throat, and scratched his head, aware that the guards would soon toss him into the street. What was his first line again? Oh, right…

"Ahem. _AAAAEEEEEIIIIIIII!"_ he shrieked at the top of his lungs, and flung himself down on the ground, sobbing.

"Whoa!"

"What the – ?"

"Please, please, willst thou help me?" Belznik pleaded, crawling up and wrapping his arms and legs tightly around one guards leg, effectively immobilizing him.

"What are you talking about, you crazy kid?" In response Belznik let out another ear-splitting scream that caused the guards to clutch their hands over their ears – even through their helmets. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

"Hearken unto me! We are in most wretched trouble, sirs, for anon, there cometh one unlike ourselves. One possessed-th…with DEMONS!"

The guards froze. Demons?

"There's no such thing as demons," the braver of the two guards (the Belznik-less one) shrugged.

"Oh yeah? Then, pray tell, why are they always _talking_ about them in the _cathedral_, ye merry men? Oh and also how do you explain that guy?" Still wrapped tightly around the cowardly guard's leg, he jerked his head in the opposite direction. Both guards looked, and both guards gasped.

Gringoire had stripped down to his heart-print underwear. His hair was an absolute mess, full of dirt, slop, and hay. He was foaming at the mouth. His eyes were looking a hundred different directions at once, and his limbs were moving everywhere, too. Yes, Gringoire was playing a demon-possessed madman, and he was doing a surprisingly good job. _I guess all those years of being called crazy are paying off,_ he thought to himself. He gave an unearthly yell, then turned a vapid glare at the guards. Belznik shrieked again and whammed his head against the guard's leg.

"YOW!" that guard cried, and the other drew his sword. "Uh – who goes there?"

"Who goes? Who are you talking to?" Gringoire questioned, spinning around.

"You! You there, where are your _clothes_?"

"Closed? Oh, I'll come back tomorrow!"

"No, your _clothes_. You're in your underwear."

"I know you are but what am I?"

The guard wasn't sure whether to be terrified or annoyed. "Uh, we've been told you're possessed. What did you do to this kid?"

"Which one of us?" Grinogire questioned sweetly.

"You right there! Who else?"

Gringoire glanced into the distance, where he saw Clopin and the rest begin to move forward. He then returned his attention to the guards. "Well there are seven demons in me and I need to know if you are talking to Harry, Jacques, Alice, Fifi, The Brute, Peanut, or Dopey."

"Uh…Peanut then. We're talking to Peanut."

"Oh! Well in that case, I killed a man in Reno."

"You – "

"WITH THIS THUMB."

"Uh…"

"And I made a giant s'more and he was the marshmallow."

"Um…"

"And I tried to steal that little boy's ears but he was too quick."

Belznik screamed again, louder than ever. "We're all gonna die!" he yelled, because he could feel the guard beginning to tremble. Gringoire, impressed with Belznik's improv, took another glance and saw that Clopin, with his crowbar, was nearly upon the guards.

"You, then – whatever your name – you are under arrest!" They stepped toward Gringoire but froze as he staggered toward the, a murderous glare in his eyes.

"But you see, it's not good to make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

Belznik screamed. "Don't let him steal my ears!"

"H-halt!" the guards cried, brandishing their weapons. "Stay back!"

The murderous look disappeared, and instead a huge grin grew on Gringoire's face. "Wanna see me do a trick?"

The guard threw off Belznik and both made a lunge for Gringoire, but before they could reach him, he threw a pellet upon the ground and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. There were too metallic clanks, two heavy thuds, and then the clouds dispersed. Gringoire was once more clothed and (relatively) sane, the guards lay in a heap upon the ground, and Clopin and his men were making fast work on the door. "Quick, boys! Good! Although that play, poet…I think I want my money back."

Gringoire grinned. "Well it was all I could do on short notice – at least it worked! Can I help you?"

"Rest on your laurels," Clopin grunted, prying at the hinges, "and keep a lookout for more guards." More gypsies arrived, flocking around the prison entry, breaking away splinters of wood with their hands in an effort to get past the great barred door. Casting a look over his shoulder, and finding the coast to be clear without a soldier in sight, Gringoire hurried away toward the side of the prison until he came upon the little ground-level window Clopin had spied earlier, and knelt down to peer inside.

"Q-Quasimodo?" The word sounded so strange – he hadn't spoken the name in years, and had never thought he would again. "Quasimodo, do you recognize an old friend?"

The window had been empty when Gringoire arrived, but quickly a large pale face appeared behind the black bars. "P-pierre Gringoire?"

"Indeed! Have no fear, Quasimodo, we are breaking you out!"

Quasimodo had been very close to suffering as he had watched the gypsies carefully surround the building. Of course he wanted his freedom, and he wanted people to know the truth, but fear for his friends' lives had weighed him down with heavy guilt. "I am not worth the loss of their freedom, or their lives," he kept telling himself. But it seemed to be Frollo's voice that was saying it.

Now, he studied the face of Frollo's former student. Even in his solitude, when any face would have been welcome, he realized that Gringoire's face had a kindness in it he had not seen before. He had never been _unkind_, but to Quasimodo, Pierre had always been allied with his cruel master, and so seemed to reflect some of the evil Claude Frollo exuded. But now, Quasimodo understood the difference between Jehan and Pierre that he had failed to see before and as a child. Pierre Gringoire had always appeared to Quasimodo to admire Frollo, and yet, he had been troubled and secretly repulsed by his teacher's cruelty; Jehan had seemed to despise Frollo, and yet he shared the same black heart. How had Quasimodo failed to see that Gringoire and he had been alike, both struggling under Frollo's power and yearning to be free?

"Pierre," he whispered, his voice choked with guilt and fear, "I – I am so sorry I doubted you. Forgive me."

Pierre's face was utterly astonished, his clear eyes big and confused. "I don't blame you, Quasimodo. You are not to blame, and you never were! Just hold on, my boy, and we will have you freed! Just as in the old days, the law is still a troublesome creature, eh?"

Quasimodo forced himself to smile. "Wait, Pierre, a moment!" Once more Quasi dragged himself as close to the window as he could. He had to ask the question – even if he feared the answer. "Tell me, is Esmeralda safe?"

"Of course." Pierre reached through and pressed the hunchback's hand between his own. His face was sympathetic and serious, tinged with a bit of determination. "You _will_ be free."

And he disappeared.

The poor, poor hunchback and his apologies. Gringoire shook his head as he moved back toward the door. He had just pushed up his sleeves, ready to join in the efforts to storm the prison, when he heard the sound of hurried hoofbeats behind him. Whirling, he saw Phoebus galloping up on Achilles. "Captain Phoebus!" Gringoire exclaimed, unsure whether this new arrival was friend or foe.

Clopin immediately turned and glowered at the soldier. "YOU! A solider, and yet you let them lock up the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and leave the gypsies to free him? What is the meaning of this?"

"Clopin," Phoebus explained, bounding out of the saddle and glancing briefly at his unconscious soldiers, "I am powerless against the word of Sister Gudule, but Esmeralda and I have a plan. She intends to have La Gudule recant her accusation, and Quasimodo will then go free."

"Indeed?" Clopin raised his hand as if to say 'we can apparently stop destroying the prison now although beaning the guards on the head was fun,' and stroked his beard. "But how do you expect the villagers to listen?"

"Esmeralda is handling that…I think. Now quickly, move aside and let me release Quasimodo from his cell. We want to get him to the square and then we can – "

"HALT IN THE NAME OF THE KING!"

The gypsies fell off from the door and turned with alarm in their eyes. Phoebus shouted as a heavy arm grasped him by the shoulder and wheeled him around, right into the smug face of Jehan Frollo. Jehan was surrounded by ten soldiers, formerly part of Frollo's guard, now under command of Captain du Moulin, a soldier of equal rank to Phoebus himself. Phoebus knew these men were loyal to Frollo even until his death, and had grumbled about the circumstances ever since. Though they were part of the same army, they were no friends to him or to Quasimodo – their alignment with Jehan was to be expected. Phoebus struggled under the grasp, but soon the soldiers began to raise their weapons, while other burst into the crowd of gypsies, pushing some to the ground and threatening others with spears and swords.

"What is this?" Phoebus demanded. "And you, you brat, where have you come from?"

"Tut tut, Captain Phoebus, is that any way to address the brother of your former employer?" Jehan smiled as Phoebus lunged for him, and was instantly dragged backwards by four strong men. _Now I know how Quasimodo felt_, Phoebus thought miserably, and glared in the face of Frollo's brother. "Maybe not – but it's how I talk to liars and cowards! You think you got away with something, don't you, you dog?" Phoebus noticed with satisfaction a change – quick, but there – on Jehan's face.

_They know it's me…_ Jehan gasped inwardly. Well then…it was even more necessary he put Phoebus and the gypsies under lock and key, where they would not betray his secret. They might know it, but they could not prove it – and as fortune liked to smile upon Jehan, Phoebus was playing right into his hand.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he shrugged, "but, at any rate, why should we believe _you_? After all, you're friends with the murderer – aren't you? Or do you deny it?"

Phoebus' face was scarlet with rage. "I don't!"

"So I thought. And friend to the gypsies too, the wretches. You weren't trying to keep them from storming the prison, as a royal guard should – why, you are urging them on! That is why M. du Moulin is taking command of this prison."

"Phoebus de Martin, you and your accomplices are under arrest," du Moulin announced. "Take them all to the dungeon. And put this captain in a cell of his own, he has some thinking to do. He will think while the hunchback hangs," he added, for the moon was low in the sky, and the dawn that followed would bring the fate of Quasimodo.

Phoebus roared and attempted to throw off his assailants, enraged at the gall and the injustice of it all. He was Phoebus de Martin, and he fought for what was right, and he knew Quasimodo was innocent. He would die fighting for that – he could swear it.

But wait – even in the clutches of the guards, Phoebus forced his way around to look into the crowd. Clopin was shrieking curses at his captors, and in fact many of the gypsies were protesting and fighting with all their power. But where was Gringoire?

_He has escaped_, Phoebus realized. At first he felt a flicker of doubt, but he silenced it. He knew – now, anyway – Gringoire was on their side.

_Whatever you're up to, you'd better be successful_, he thought darkly.

And that was all he thought, for at that very moment, above the nearby yells of the gypsies and soldiers, and the faraway shrieks of the mob, there came a slow and steady sound.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

-X-

Jehan paused. W-what could this be? All his intellectual powers had nearly been exhausted in his efforts that night, and it seemed he would die if he had to think any more. Quasimodo was imprisoned – and yet the bells of Notre Dame were ringing! How could that possibly be?

But Gringoire, swathed in his purple cape, knew. Thank goodness he had managed to escape! He had to make sure the villagers understood the meaning in those bells. The same bells he had a heard as a child, as a student of Frollo, as an artist leaving the city forever, only to return with the bells ringing still. He had to make sure the bellringer – and his friends – would be safe.

And so as Esmeralda – because yes, she was that star in the belltower – rang little Anne-Marie, signaling "danger, danger," the townspeople stopped their cries and listened in astonishment, and Gringoire hurried to the cathedral doors and to the side of La Gudule.

She was listening closest of all. Pulling Gringoire down by his sleeve, she looked at the poet with her sharp black eyes. "Notre Dame," she said, in a fearsome voice, "is crying for its master."


	13. Tearing the Masks

**Chapter 12**

**Tearing the Masks**

Esmeralda, Djali at her side, shouldered her way into Notre Dame, throwing her weight against the heavy, massive doors. It was strange to suddenly find herself in the serene interior. The thick walls muffled the cries and shouts outdoors, and instead of blazing torches, now only a few dim candles flickered in a faraway aisle.

Esmeralda paused for a quick breath, and took a hurried glance around. Upon the floor there were spatters of blood and a candelabra lay sprawled in the pathway where it had been knocked down in the fight. The cathedral was strangely empty, all things considered, but as Esmeralda's eyes adjusted to the dimness she detected a kneeling figure at the altar beneath the rose window.

"The Archdeacon." The good man had not forgotten Quasimodo; at least he knew the truth. "But all the prayers in the world won't help unless someone helps God out," Esmeralda told herself as she pulled a candle from a half-lit candelabra. "I only hope I can."

With the candle tight in her grasp, Esmeralda rushed up the old stairway to the belltower three steps at a time, Djali struggling to keep up. "This is a crazy plan, but it has to work." She knew that, although they had been quick to listen to La Gudule's accusation against Quasi, the villagers were in such chaos that most of them would never hear the nun take back her words, even if they wanted to.

"That's why we have to get their attention."

Esmeralda at last reached the landing. Quasi's room, she saw, was disheveled; he had evidently been roused from his sleep when he went to bravely help La Gudule. His nightshirt even still lay across the floor, near a trio of gargoyles.

Esmeralda had been up here so often in the past months, but in her talks with Quasi she had failed to be particularly observant, and never had she been here when Quasi rang the bells. "I have to make sure he has the chance to ring them again," she told Djali. "Ugh, if only I'd paid attention!" She grit her teeth with frustration and scanned the room for a place to leave her candle. Then, carefully, she made her way over to the great bronze bells.

They loomed over her, larger than they had ever seemed before. Standing under the shadow of the gigantic Big Marie, Esmeralda happened to glance over the edge of the cathedral: from here, she could plainly see the view below, and in the distance, she thought she saw a small white dot hurrying to the Palace of Justice.

Phoebus and Achilles. Esmeralda could only hope Phoebus were able to get Quasi out before the hangman arrived at dawn. "Yet it will be of no use unless La Gudule takes back her accusations!"

And so she hurried onward, picking her way carefully in the dark, to little Anne-Marie. _"When someone is in danger, for instance, I am ordered to ring Anne-Marie – the little one there – ten times." _Esmeralda remembered that clearly and – well, down in the square, she had thought she could do it too. But now, she bit her lip. "Quasi made it seem so easy!" She wasn't even sure which rope was Anne-Marie's – there were half a dozen here, all thicker than Esmeralda's arm!

She couldn't help it. Her heart was starting to beat faster. She thought she had known fear – just months before, she was facing death herself! But the fear for someone else, someone totally helpless, was different – you couldn't talk yourself out of it or become resigned to it. It was a bolder fear, a fear that would not surrender, a fear that taunted.

But though this fear made Esmeralda cold, and her knees weak, it also made her angry. And if the fear tried to stop her, the anger pushed her on.

Esmeralda reached out and grabbed onto the nearest rope with both hands. It just barely gave even under all her force.

"Ugh, you stupid bell. Ring!" Esmeralda cried, and again, with both fists wound tightly around the bellrope, she pulled. Again, the bell scarcely moved.

Suddenly a shout erupted in the street. Esmeralda didn't care what it meant, yet it spurred her on.

"How does Quasi do it?" she panted, drawing a heavy breath from her exertion. Why, of course Quasi was a strong man now, but he had told her he had rung the bells since he was a child. She stared up at Anne-Marie, thinking of all the times Quasi set the tower singing, all bells ringing at once as he leapt merrily through the rafters, as if they were moving on their own –

"That's _it_! Of course!" Esmeralda cried, looking at Djali with triumph. She had said it herself. _"Who says Anne-Marie is not alive? She sings, doesn't she? She dances, doesn't she? __ I've__ never seen such graceful swaying, at least."_ If she wanted Anne-Marie to sing, well, she'd have to get her "dancing."

Backing up a few steps, Esmeralda rushed forward, leapt into the air, and clasped on to the bellrope, holding on, dangling in the air herself, and casting her entire weight onto the cord. Anne-Marie dipped, and a low hum came from within the depths of the bell. Again, Esmeralda flung herself on the rope, and now Anne-Marie swayed back and forth. The great clapper struck once, softly, against the bell's side. "She's moving," Esmeralda gasped, and again, threw her weight down on the bell's rope. Anne-Marie moved even more, whipping the rope back and forth, and ringing now in earnest.

"One," Esmeralda whispered. She pulled the rope. Anne-Marie sang out. "Two."

"_The bells are used to say things, as well. There's a sort of bellringer's code."_

"Three."

"_When someone is in danger, for instance, I am ordered to ring Anne-Marie ten times…"_

"Four."

"_So that means you have saved people, then, Quasimodo?"_

"Five."

Down in the crowd, Gringoire could scarcely believe his ears. "You – you are Esmeralda's MOTHER?"

"She was like my child, and she helped me to see the truth.

"Well then, my good woman, come!"

"Six."

Down in the church, the Archdeacon knelt in the reflection of the rose window, and raised his head at the sound of the bells.

"Seven."

"The monks and priests can pray for salvation…. God saves them and the priests ask God."

"Eight."

" '_The voice of the Lord is in power;' that's what the bell means."_

"Nine."

Down in the square, the townspeople were silent, save for quiet murmurings of "Danger?" "Who is in the belltower?" "But Quasimodo is imprisoned!"

Gringoire leapt up onto the podium of the gallows, and pulled La Gudule after him.

"Ten."

Anne-Marie was almost ringing herself now, and Esmeralda sat down in the bell's shadow, under her resonant clanging, to breathe. She had no idea how to _stop_ the bell, but if Anne-Marie had something more to say, who was Esmeralda to stop her?

-X-

The first few clangs had silenced Jehan, du Moulin, and his soldiers, but they quickly recovered their military senses; if anything, the bells had reminded them of their job at hand. And so, in the pale mingling of moon and sunlight upon the horizon, they burst into Quasimodo's cell.

The found him at the window. Face to bars, Quasimodo had been listening, scarcely breathing, to the cries of Anne-Marie.

He had never before heard the bells from down below.

As if that weren't change enough, the question of 'who could it be?' flitted briefly across his mind, until he knew. "Esmeralda!" he had breathed, staring in astonishment at the cathedral in the distance. But how – oh, she was so intelligent and strong if she could ring Anne-Marie alone, and she must have truly listened to his explanation of the danger signal! She delivered it perfectly.

What a woman.

But why was she ringing them? He figured it must have been a part of Phoebus, Clopin, and Pierre's plan.

So when he heard the prison doors open, and saw a shaft of light appear in the dark corridors, he turned, expecting to see the face of a friend.

Instead, he saw the harsh and unkind face of a soldier he did not know, and the face of Frollo's brother.

Quasimodo's own face changed from relief to horror. Jehan noticed this, and laughed out loud – a sharp, easy laugh.

"I suppose you expect that other captain, eh, Quasimodo?"

"_Jehan._" Quasimodo glowered, and Jehan, frowning, took a step backwards. For, as you will recall, Jehan had never before seen Quasimodo angry (but then, Quasimodo had never before seen Jehan as _he_ truly was). In fact, the look frightened him, as if he were facing a wild beast.

Fortunately, M. du Moulin's presence gave him a version of courage. Again the boy smiled, and again Quasi snarled.

"Y-you blame me!" Quasi cried.

"For what?"

"For hurting La Gudule! But we both know the truth. I know the truth about everything now, Jehan."

"I have no idea what you are talking about Quasimodo, but I think I'm finding out the truth now. I and the townspeople should have listened when my brother called you a monster. It's easy enough for you to be kind to the people you admire – like impressive military captains and beautiful gypsy girls – and yet when you want something, your mask of kindness is thrown off. I suppose you thought no one would suspect you for trying to kill La Gudule. After all, she always hated you and the gypsies."

Quasimodo winced as his hands were doubled back behind him, awkwardly bent across his hunchback. How could Jehan be so wicked? How could he even imagine such lies?

"Well hunchback," M. du Moulin hissed as he clasped the shackles round Quasi's wrists and ankles, "the truth will come out at your trial." The city's version of a trial consisted of proving the accursed innocent with a credible witness, a final joke at a reprieve before death. Yet Quasi knew no valid witness would stand – it was his word against La Gudule's, and La Gudule would always triumph, especially if Jehan supported her.

"Quite right, Quasi," Jehan grinned. "What was it my brother used to say?" he cocked his head, like a bird of prey, and looked right into Quasi's face. The hunchback snarled, an utterly loveless look, and despite his display, Jehan shuddered again.

"Your brother used to say, "The truth shall set you free."

Jehan said nothing more; he stepped back and allowed the soldiers to hand Quasimodo out the damaged doorway.

Quasimodo had intended to remain silent, to utter not a single word, lest he somehow satisfied Jehan on the way to the gallows. But the scene outside the prison filled him with despair.

"Phoebus!" he cried out at the sight of the strong captain, now bound in iron shackles as unforgiving as his own. Another look showed him Clopin and the gypsies equally restrained. (Clopin had been gagged in addition, as his witty retorts and very precise curses had ceased to be funny long ago.)

Phoebus looked miserable, but tried to put on a brave face for Quasi. "Don't stop fighting! There's still hope!" He gave Quasimodo a single look, full of meaning, but it was then that du Moulin struck Phoebus with the hilt of his sword, causing the captain to cry out in pain. At this cry, Jehan gave another laugh, and in his usual way, he strode over to Phoebus casually. "Du Moulin," he observed, "I think it would be beter if these criminals, in order to better understand the futility of rebelling against the King and the law, should be present at Quasimodo's execution."

"Quite right, Monsieur Frollo." He signaled to his men to fetch another cart for Phoebus and the gypsies, and a group of soldiers dispatched immediately.

Quasimodo felt tears spring to his eyes to look at his friends, and he did not remove his stare from Phoebus even as he was hauled roughly into the executioner's cart. _All of this was my fault – all of it! Ah, Phoebus – now I know why Esmeralda trusted you_.

But what did the captain mean with his words and look? _ "There's still hope!" _Quasimodo could not understand. What hope was left?

-X-

Just as Phoebus and the gypsies had been hauled into the cart at the Palace of Justice, the bell in Notre Dame died down, and with it the voices of the Paris crowd. Now all their eyes were on the gallows, where, instead of the hunchback and the executioner, stood the crazy nun of Notre Dame, La Gudule, and a man in a purple cape whom many of them did not recognize, or recalled only as a vague memory from long ago.

Indeed, Gringoire stood on the podium, his lips dry. Many times had he performed upon a stage, but never to such an ambiguous crowd. The faces there were void of expression – would they cheer him, or tear him to shreds once they heard his words?

"But I'm not the one in danger of execution," he reminded himself. He remembered the unfairness of the gypsy trial he had faced just weeks before, and the fear and apprehension he had felt then, knowing this false trial would be so much the worse. That was enough to give him courage.

"Citizens of Paris!" he called out.

No one blinked. Gringoire fidgeted.

"Uh…lovely weather we are having tonight…"

He felt himself elbowed sharply by La Gudule.

"Right…citizens of Paris, lend me your ear. You have heard Notre Dame crying for its master and weeping for his return. And why shouldn't Our Lady of Paris weep? Because a great injustice has been done here this night." Gringoire paused as he caught sight of Esmeralda emerging from the cathedral. He then looked at the audience. Many of them remained impassive, and yet – was it his imagination running wild with him again, or did he detect a tinge of sympathy there?

"Quasimodo has done you no wrong, don't you see? A single woman, in a dark church, accused him in her fear – but is that any reason he should die? Who wakes you and guides you with the bells? Quasimodo! Who saved you from the merciless destruction of Judge Claude Frollo? Quasimodo! Who tends to your children with the sweetness of a saint, and to the very birds of the cathedral eaves? Quasimodo! You scream he is a devil, but I beg of you to stop and think for yourselves! You've heard enough of demons and of angels, so consider – which is Quasimodo?"

Well, this speech was certainly better than his impromptu demon possession an hour or so before; he was, after all, a poet, so if ever he hoped to command a crowd with his eloquence, now was the time! Gringoire took another opportunity to steal a glance at Esmeralda, and if he had looked but a few moments sooner, he would have seen her steadily staring back, her green eyes shining with hope and glinting with determination.

But now, her glance was far in the distance. Gringoire followed her eyes, and soon understood why she stood shocked and dismayed. For rolling into the square were two wooden carts; one bearing Captain Phoebus and the captured gypsies, the other Quasimodo and the executioner. Behind, riding horses, was Captain du Moulin, his soldiers, and Jehan Frollo.

The crowd gasped, unsure what to think. A few stragglers cheered, but most remained silent. Esmeralda cried out, "Phoebus!" and rushed towards the cart, but was knocked backward by a quick swipe of du Moulin's armored forearm.

Beside him, Gringoire heard La Gudule mutter a bitter curse. He still believed it a miracle she had been so quickly won to their side – he only hoped she would stay true to her word and speak before the guards.

Phoebus saw du Moulin knock Esmeralda back, and never before had he felt so utterly helpless, bound with ropes and irons in the back of the wooden cart. Worse still, he was forced to do nothing while Jehan Frollo looked on, smirking. And if he felt so powerless now, how would it feel to watch poor Quasimodo hang?

Quasimodo had heard Esmeralda cry, "Phoebus!" and even now, he felt a pang of jealousy, which he knew was wrong – Esmeralda was simply shocked to see Phoebus now imprisoned too. Yet when he saw that horrible soldier strike her – strike Esmeralda! – he turned with such a livid glare that even the executioner faltered, and Jehan Frollo went pale.

Still, du Moulin and his men surged forward and began to drag Quasi out of the cart and to lead him up on the podium. "Clear out!" he shouted. "What is the meaning of this? Get off the podium!"

Gringoire gulped, slung his purple cape over his arm, and turned to face du Moulin.

"Before the hunchback of Notre Dame is to be executed, he is allowed a witness to prove he is innocent," Gringoire announced.

"There are no witnesses!" du Moulin snorted. "Stand aside!"

"Nevertheless, if someone wishes to speak on the hunchback's behalf, they may. Don't try to contradict me, M. du Moulin – I studied the law under Claude Frollo, and you know it. I was once a devoted student of Frollo."

The audience gasped in recognition. This was Pierre Gringoire, come back!

M. du Moulin faltered. As one of Frollo's guards, he had trusted Frollo's judgment completely. If he was to take orders from Frollo's brother, he must listen to his student as well.

"IF anyone cares to speak on the hunchback's behalf, I urge you to do so!"

He stepped back, and allowed the crowd to look at Quasimodo. "Defend this murderer, then!"

As the crowd looked at the four people upon the podium, Jehan darted his head about in disbelief. Pierre Gringoire had returned? What sorcery was this? And how dare du Moulin stop the proceedings? Quasimodo must die, and Phoebus and his men stay in prison, so that he could do a proper job with La Gudule and claim his brother's fortune once and for all!

But even Jehan Frollo would have to wait now, for there was a murmuring in the crowd.

"I will speak on Quasimodo's behalf!" Esmeralda stepped out of the crowd. "It was not Quasimodo!"

Some in the crowd laughed (and Clopin, even through his gag, was clearly shouting his approval), but du Moulin snorted. "A gypsy girl? Why would we trust you?"

Quasimodo could scarcely breathe. She looked so beautiful and so proud. _And yet no one will listen to her,_ he knew, with a heavy sadness. What he did not know, was why she seemed to be looking so attentively, and speaking with her eyes, at La Gudule, who stood frozen on the podium.

But he had no time to wonder, for within the crowd another voice, this time small and thin, piped up. "I will speak on Quasi's behalf! It was not Quasimodo!"

This time the crowd laughed in earnest, for this voice belonged to Mariette Garouche. Even little Mariette! Oh, she should have been asleep in her bed, not out in this danger! Quasimodo was ashamed for her to see him this way.

"Well, this is a bit better," du Moulin chuckled, "at least she's French. But if the law was left in the hands of children this would be a very backwards world."

"Of that I'm not so certain," Gringoire muttered.

"Then by God, I'll speak on his behalf!" Phoebus roared from the cart. "IT WAS NOT QUASIMODO!"

"Silence, prisoner!" du Moulin ordered, as Jehan picked his way delicately to the stage.

"Indeed," hissed Frollo's brother. "Even the Captain of the Guard cannot be trusted from a prisoner's cart. Well, du Moulin, it seems there is no one to speak on Quasimodo's behalf. I mean, just ask Sister Gudule! Only she and Quasi were there, so we may count on her word alone."

Esmeralda, Phoebus, and Gringoire looked closely as Jehan, a satisfied smile on his face, approached the nun.

"Well, La Gudule? Tell them what you know!"

La Gudule looked up into Jehan's face, and she saw the face of Frollo there. And then she looked into the face of Esmeralda. She never before thought in her life that the face of a gypsy girl would hold more kindness, and more truth, than the face of Frollo's brother.

"It was not Quasimodo."

There was a shriek from the crowd. The guards shouted. Jehan tottered a bit where he stood. "What do you mean? He tried to kill you!"

La Gudule replied, "Someone nearly killed me. It was not Quasimodo."

"Sister," du Moulin demanded, "do you mean to drop your accusation?"

"I do not, sir. I was…I was not attacked by the hunchback of Notre Dame."

Exasperated, du Moulin shouted, "By WHO, then?"

La Gudule drew in one breath, and leveled her crooked finger at the brother of Frollo. "By Jehan Frollo."

Jehan Frollo?

Quasimodo's head snapped up. H-how had La Gudule found out the truth? How could she have possibly chosen _his_ side over Jehan Frollo's?

No one in the crowd spoke. Esmeralda looked at Phoebus, and their eyes locked. Clopin cheered something from behind his gag, and Gringoire pressed the hand of La Gudule with pride.

Jehan said and did nothing at all. Quasimodo knew this because he refused to take his eyes off the boy, and was observing him very closely.

It was therefore up to du Moulin to break the silence. "La Gudule, you make no sense. You very clearly accused Quasimodo – you fought with him! Look at the beast's bruises and scrapes! Look at yours!"

"It was not Quasimodo."

Du Moulin frowned. "You make a very serious accusation, La Gudule. Why would the brother of your benefactor, Claude Frollo, wish to do you harm? You clearly were an enemy to Quasimodo, and – "

"I – I had something which Jehan Frollo wanted, and I believe he intended to take it by dishonest means."

Now all eyes were on Jehan, who seemed to be struggling to keep a pleasant expression on his face, and succeeded only in a strange mixture of nonchalance and malevolence.

"La Gudule," he said, with a smile, as he stepped forward, "I don't think you understand what you are saying. Remember? You and I are very good friends. We live under the motto of helping one another. Why would I – "

"You wanted your brother's fortune and you wished to take it at my death!" La Gudule shrieked suddenly.

Now Jehan knew there would be no wheedling, no manipulation. His mask of kindness was now quite gone – if she wanted to do this the hard way, very well! So would he.

"The woman is mad!" he cried. "Do you hear her? She is so bold as to blame _me_ when she has accused Quasimodo herself! You have seen her with the hunchback and the gypsies – she has shown them no love! So why now? I think _she_ must want my brother's fortune! Accuse _me_, the brother of a judge!"

The crowd seemed to be doubting him! They hadn't known about Frollo's fortune, and that changed things. A few in the crowd echoed "It was not Quasimodo!" while others cried "The nun speaks the truth!" and "Release him!" Even du Moulin looked uneasy. "Sister Gudule, you must then have some proof of Jehan Frollo's crimes," he said. "We saw Quasimodo in the fight, yet Jehan was nowhere near. If you _are_ in your good senses, we must have reason to believe you."

La Gudule looked around, confused. "I – " she looked at Esmeralda in the crowd. Was the word of a holy woman not enough? When she had accused the hunchback they believed her – was she now to be treated as a common liar?

Du Moulin looked at her fiercely. "Well, woman?"

"I…I have no proof."

The crowd burst out in a loud and angry cry, but a smile broke on Jehan's face, the kind of smile that looked as out of place there as it would have on Frollo's own face. "Well then? Quasimodo shall hang!" _And then La Gudule shall pay._

"W – wait!"

Jehan spun, and du Moulin frowned at Quasimodo. "What?"

"I – I have proof." His voice trembled, but it was resolute.

Jehan sneered, and with a curled lip demanded, "What proof? I should like to see what proof you have got!"

"Excuse me, Captain, but will you look at my hands?"

Du Moulin strode over to the hunchback and yanked his hands forward, iron shackles clinking. "I see nothing."

"Exactly. Now, sir – will you look at Jehan's?"

Rolling his eyes, du Moulin took a step toward Jehan, but the young Frollo backed away instinctively. "What are you doing – "

"Just give me your hand so we can get this over with," du Moulin ordered. Dawn was beginning to break, turning the sky dove grey. Without another word Jehan reluctantly offered both hands. "The Captain sees nothing," he retorted.

Quasimodo quietly replied, "Oh, he doesn't? Well…what about the blood beneath your fingernails?"

"YOU DEVIL!" Jehan shrieked as du Moulin clenched both his hands and stared them down.

"The – the monster is right!" he cried in disbelief.

"True! How could Quasimodo avoid dirtying his hands if he had attacked La Gudule?" Gringoire grinned triumphantly. "And why else would young Frollo have blood on his? Look at her bruises and cuts!"

"Release me!" Jehan screamed as du Moulin ordered his soldiers to shackle his arms and legs. "CURSES UPON YOU ALL!"

"L-let the hunchback go free, then," du Moulin ordered raggedly. "The witness revoked her accusation, and in good faith. That is all that is required."

The soldiers stormed the podium to set Quasimodo free of his bonds. He heard the irons clatter to the ground behind him and, in delirium, stumbled forward off the podium, straight into Esmeralda's arms.

The soldiers bore a shrieking Jehan Frollo into the same cart that had carried Quasimodo, while still more hurried to cut free Captain Phoebus, Clopin, and the gypsies. After all, how could they be imprisoned for trying to free an innocent man?

Once in the back of the cart that would take him to the Palace of Justice, Jehan screamed curse after horrible curse as if that would somehow set him free. No longer was he the easygoing, privileged, handsome boy everyone had believed him to be. He was a criminal, like the brother he now so strongly resembled, and with every cruel word he uttered, he was sealing his own fate.

Over the cheers of the crowd, Quasimodo, secure in Esmeralda's grasp, could barely hear he whispering "You're safe now, okay? You're safe."

It was a sound more comforting to him even than the ringing of the bells that had saved him.

-X-

"You should have seen the look on your face!" Clopin roared with laughter. "You looked as if you would fall off the very belltower when we all jumped out!"

Quasimodo grinned, his face red and bashful. "Well you must remember, Clopin – I have never had a surprise party before."

Quasimodo looked around at his friends, who had gathered together and hidden themselves on the roof of Notre Dame. He thought Esmeralda had been acting mischievous for the past few days, asking if he liked visitors in his belltower (he didn't mind at all), what his favorite color was (it was green), and things like that.

"Well at any rate, I declare it a success," Clopin stated, adjusting his paper crown, as Clopinet reached for another piece of cake.

"Oh Clopin, shut up and stop stealing the show! It's _Quasi's_ birthday! Here, Quasimodo, here's the last present." She handed Quasi a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"Hopefully it'll be better than yours," Phoebus chuckled. Esmeralda gave a rueful grin of her own. "Okay, so I'm not the best knitter in the world. Sue me."

"Oh no, you made a wonderful gift!" Quasimodo protested, touching the warm green scarf she had made him. "You're right – it does get chilly ringing the bells in winter."

Esmeralda gave him a smile warmer than the scarf. But Mariette, about to burst with impatience, blurted out "That's my present, Quasi!"

"Oh yes, of course!" Quasimodo began to peel off the paper from the parcel in his hands. Beneath the wrapping, placed against a piece of firewood, he found a little chalk drawing done on a scrap of muslin. "Mariette, did you draw this?"

Mariette bounded to his side and pointed over his shoulder. "Yes! It's a picture of you and me. That's you, and that's me." She pointed out the figures in explaination.

"It's a masterpiece, Mariette!" Quasi beamed. "I'll hang it on my wall so I can look at it always."

"Yay!" Mariette hugged him tight. "Oh Quasi, I'm so glad you're safe."

"We're _all_ glad of that," Phoebus agreed heartily. "Who knew ther could be so much danger in a church?"

"You'd be surprised," Quasimodo replied wryly. "Thank goodness I have such kind friends."

Clopin was about to launch into a very clever oration on the topic, but was distracted by a sound in Quasimodo's chambers. "Who on earth could that be?" he demanded, not a little insulted.

"I think I have an idea," Esmeralda answered.

But Quasi wasn't sure either. Raising himself off the ground, he made his way, halting, into his room. He found Pierre Gringoire there, examining the little carved village. He jumped a bit when he realized Quasi had spotted him.

"Ah, hello Quasimodo! Happy birthday!" He gave a theatrical bow, his cape sweeping the ground.

"Hi, Pierre." Quasi smiled. "I'm glad to see you again." In fact, Quasimodo hadn't seen Gringoire at all in the three days ince his trial.

Gringoire smiled too. "And I as well." He turned toward the village again. "I have never before been in the belltower. Which is to say I have never seen this stunning handiwork. You are quite the artist, Quasimodo."

Quasi hobbled over to the table. As Frollo's student, Gringoire had always been steered far away from Quasimodo and his sanctuary. It seemed to make him a bit sad, now. "I – I never carved a figure of you. I hope you don't mind if I do someday."

"You never carved a Frollo, either…" Pierre said, almost more to himself than Quasi. "But of course! I should be honored! Don't forget my cape, though…"

"Oh, I won't!"

Pierre smiled, and looked up as the others drifted into the room.

"I wasn't sure you could make it," Esmeralda said, Phoebus' arm around her waist. "I'm glad you came!"

"Ah, well I would have been sooner if La Gudule hadn't chattered my ear off. She seems to be in a better mood lately…I can't imagine why."

Esmeralda smiled. "I enjoy visiting her. She is a very strong woman, and even though we are very different, I feel like we are both learning so much."

"After all these years, you were reunited! "Quasi exclaimed. "I still can't believe it – it's like a miracle!"

Clopin had gone far too long without talking and so he demanded of Gringoire, "Poet-scoundrel, have you decided upon an answer to my offer?"

"Well, have you?" Clopinet pressed.

"Ah, yes, that is part of why I came here. You see, Clopin, the gypsy life is a beautiful one, but I fear that, in the end, it is not the life for me after all. I am not a juggler or a dancer or a singer – I am a poet, a wanderer of the earth. I want to travel and to make the world my home."

"Traveling soon gets old, Gringoire," Phoebus informed him seriously. "Trust me."

Gringoire weighed this information. "Ah, maybe so. But I still long to know, is there such evil, and such good, everywhere in this earth? I have to find out for myself."

"Unfortunately," Esmeralda observed, "I suspect there is, as long as there are people to cause it."

"So do I," Quasimodo considered. But then he looked around his friends – brave, strong Phoebus; kind and just Esmeralda; clever Clopin, faithful Mariette, and the honest poet Gringoire – and he felt the need to add, "But there's more good, I think, and more love."

"A very good verdict!" Gringoire declared. "From a very good man. Happy birthday, Quasimodo!"

"Good bye, Gringoire!" Gringoire rushed to give everyone a friendly hug. "Don't you worry!" he cried. "I shall be back soon! Ugh! I'm going to get emotional – and I still have to tell Belznik and the others farewell! Good bye! I will write to you! And I'"

Quasimodo couldn't help but laugh a bit at Pierre's surge of emotion, and the poet nearly rushed from the room. But before he reached the stairwell, he whirled about in a moment of inspiration, cape flying.

"I've just had the most brilliant idea for a play! It's sure to be a success! I'll write about all of our adventures, and of you, Quasimodo. And I'll call it – " Gringoire spread his hands out against the sky, as if a vision had come to him, " _The Hunchback of Notre Dame!_"

His friends all considered this idea.

"It'll never catch on," stated Clopin, with a shrug. "Now let us eat cake."

- X -

And so, puppet, you have seen: people are not always what they seem. Whether through treachery, as in the case of Jehan Frollo – or shame, like that of Pierre Gringoire – or fear, the fear the crippled La Gudule – they may hide their true selves from the world beyond. But never forget, puppet, even in this masquerade, the light of kindness and truth can shine a light on their faces.

Just like the light in the heart of the hunchback of Notre Dame!


End file.
